


The War of Winter

by neverwondernever (thatgbppfrom10880MP)



Series: The War of Winter [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-24 18:17:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 29,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6162308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgbppfrom10880MP/pseuds/neverwondernever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of Morgoth Bauglir (Melkor) [Mblekehuruz] and the aftermath of the War of Wrath. He was not bound and forced into the Void, but rather Sauron (Mairon) [Mairai] was in his stead.</p><p>I use Valarin/original constructions of Valarin in this story, and this is to match with the Appendices that I have typed up. This is because I add a lot of original concepts. It is difficult for me to see Morgoth Bauglir as the same as Melkor as the same as Mbelekhuruz. I also use a fair number of heiti, kennings, and epithets, and this is why the Appendices are important. I provide a list of the Valarin names at the beginning of each chapter.</p><p>[There is an audio version on my tumblr: wolvesdevour.tumblr.com<br/>I will add audio to Ao3 when I can figure it out.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz 
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Ainur = Ayanuz

The war had raged on for years among the Children of Creation. For the younger of the Ayanuz, they felt these years. Mbelekhuruz did not. He felt the pain of his Creations, of the Land that was Himself, and of the Ayanuz that served him. His sight of years stretched beyond that of even the Sky Himself, even the Judge Himself, for all his foresight. Mbelekhuruz grew weary of this war. Of the destruction to the Land, to the death of his Children. 

The earth resounded with screaming, seeping wet with blood. From the sky, blood and fire rained, smoke burned out the sky and thunder and lightning struck, lighting the dark battlefield. The Light was pushing back, illuminating the darkened, charred lands. Destruction ravaged on both sides. War is not a careful thing.

Deep within his breast, Mbelekhuruz felt the Fire All-Consuming. He felt the dread in what the War brought upon the Land and how it suffered. The Children were dying and Life Itself was in peril. War was at it's full-most power, anger rising among the battlefield. Lightning struck the winged drakes out of sky, and yet it further sought death of the Children, no matter their creator. 

The Wind raged out, and the Storm brewed. Mbelekhuruz heard their call. It must end. 

The Land beneath was destroyed. The Water took it in, and many peoples and cities and life was lost.

The drums of Thunder pounded. It was not his own. 

He felt the fear of the Children of Creation. They called for the end of the War. They called in anger. 

They called for the Land's end. They called for the end of Fire. They called for the end of Thunder. They called for the end of Darkness.

It must end rang among the Ayanuz and Children alike. All but in the mind of one.

Mbelekhuruz stood and those around him watched in awe. The Land did not move without great purpose. It must end, All of Creation rang. It must end the Storm rang, water and wind together. It must end, the fire and smoke called. 

The Land called forth and War answered.

The earth beneath shook and the sky flashed in blinding light. The drums of Thunder pounded and the Land fell.

The end the end the voices called. The Land has fallen and War has won. 

The Land was bound within itself. As lightning to sand, Tulukhastaz bound Mbelekhuruz.

The Sky came forward now to his brother. The end the end the voices cried and the Land and Ayanuz alike heard it. 

The Water came forward, taking in those ravaged places. The end the end they cried.

They took the lighted Jewels of the Children from the Land and the Land wept for its loss. They took its crown, and with the hammer of the Forge, they bound the Land further. 

The Land was chained and bound in its own ruin. The Children took their use of the Land and spat on it. They took its metals and its jewels and with forge and hammer, they soon forgot of the Land and its gifts. They took and gave nothing but hatred back.

The end the end they cried.

The Land no longer moved, for it could not, constrained by the Lightning. Life grew around it and it was lost. The Wind shaped it and molded it as it wanted. The Water washed it away. 

The end the end the Land cried.

The Fire of the Land lashed out in anger and soon, it was forced from Creation, thrown into the Void for its malice and hate of the Children and the Ayanuz. It could not forgive those that bound its master.

Mbelekhuruz wept as he watched the one most precious to him, his Fire, unable to be controlled and commanded, was forced beyond the Walls of All of Creation. Mairai was thrust behind the Door of Night, beyond that which the Land could reach, and was to be preyed upon by the Void beyond.


	2. Haleth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War of Winter will have several perspectives.
> 
> This is the start of Haleth's story.
> 
> Haleth is one of the race of Men. She is the daughter of Fanuilos and Girion. Her uncle is Haldad and a priest of Fuiheskilez. They reside in the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Valar = Balar  
> Ainur = Ayanuz

Fanuilos tended to the scraped skins, placing them inside the smoke bag. Her daughter, Haleth, watched her, eating the chilled raw, fresh meat. Fanuilos hung the smoke bag over the fire. She threw rotten sticks into the fire, which diminished, producing smoke in its stead. She had pale blond hair and her proportions were lean in comparison to the others in the camp.

Girion walked over, a great tall man covered in furs. He was scarred and his fat masked his muscular form. He stopped briefly to kiss his wife before heading to his daughter. She was young, but nearing her puberty. What her age was, she did not know. Counting the moon and sun as they passed was a difficult art and one she was not well versed in. Her hair was matted and roped. She wore her dreadlocks in a bundle and wrapped in a faded cloth. He turned now to join his daughter, who had finished her fish piece.

"Do you know of the story of how we came to know fire, little wolf-friend?" he said to her, sitting down. She curled into him, taking in the warmth and smells of his body and furs. He wrapped his arm around her.

"No, father," she said. "You tell it to me every hunt, but I do not know it!" She laughed as he huffed.

"You cannot deceive me wolf-friend!" and Girion took the time to find his daughter's sides and tickle her, to which she squealed in protest. "Your mind is the finest snare I've seen! You may tell the tale then!" 

Haleth wriggled and laughed as she said, "And why should I?"

"Because I am weary from our hunt and if you tell it, perhaps I will give you a gift, little wolf-friend!" he said, releasing his daughter. 

Fanuilos walked over to join them. "Come now, Hal, let's hear a story!" 

Haleth stood, rolling her eyes. "Fine, but I want to tell my own! I want to pick!" and she walked to where her mother had been working previously. 

Fanuilos and Girion shared a look. Haleth was their only surviving child. Her siblings before her had died, one from chill and one from malnutrition, and Fanuilos had a fourth child after Haleth, but he arrived stillborn. Girion and Fanuilos had agreed that Haleth often made up for the lose of her siblings not just in spirit and energy, but also in difficulty. 

Haleth found some charred wood from the fire pit and marked herself with the charcoal dust. Fanuilos deflated a little, for cleanliness was difficult to achieve with her daughter and therefore was a great of a battle as the War of Wrath. 

Girion murmured to his wife, "She has spoken with her uncle."

"Is this where she learned it from? You must speak with him," Fanuilos muttered back.

Girion was to respond when Haleth returned to them, the area around her eyes darkened and a vertical line across the middle of her forehead. There was ash on her chin. Her hands were marked with black and ash from her efforts.

Fanuilos looked to Girion. 

Girion smiled at his daughter and said, "This is not the markings of Winter. And who might you be?"

Haleth bared her teeth--more of a threat and a friendly grin. "It is of the Wolf!" 

Her parents glanced at each other, then Girion said, more carefully now, "And what story shall you tell us, Wolf?"

"Of how it came to be!" Haleth said and growled to how she imagined a wolf to growl. In truth, she had not seen a wolf in her lifetime. Whether they had grown extinct or so rare in number, those of her clan could not say, not even her uncle, Girion's brother, who was a priest of Winter. All she had seen was their furs and bones, that which had passed down through the clan and through trade with others. Most of her knowledge of what a wolf was was through legend and story.

"Alright, little Wolf, then tell us the story, but quickly now!" Girion said.

And so Haleth began:

"Long before the Fire left, long before Winter came, long before the Land was, there was Darkness that was beyond the Night," she said, and what she spoke was how all stories began. "In the Darkness, a Light shone and grew into a Great Fire. From this Great Fire, Land grew, and beyond the Land, there was Sky, Night, Stars, Sea, Plant-Life, Animal-Life, Creation, Youth, Age, Death, Desire, War, and Peace. The Great Fire illuminated what the Darkness held!'  
She continued now to her own story, that of the Creation of the Wolf.

'The Land loved all that he held in his arms! There were trees and flowers and deer and yak! There was the sea and above all this there was the shining stars! Deep below, there was the fire and warmth. He loved it all.'

'Soon the Children awoke. First the Elder Ones, and then us, the Younger Ones.'  
'The Elder Ones had their fruits and their bows. They fed themselves well, for they were quick and favored by the Balar.'

'The Land watched as his sisters, brothers, and siblings ignored the newly awakened Ones. He watched as they grew hungry and lost.'

'The Land grew concerned. He asked the Mother of Plants to aid the Younger Ones, and she said there was not enough fruit and leaf for them all. He asked the Swift-footed Hunter to show them the gifts of his creations, but the Hunter said he was busy with travel. The Land then asked the Sea Lord for aid, yet the Sea Lord was too deep within his waters to hear the plea for aid.'

'And so, the Land turned to the Younger Ones, those who were starving, those who were dying, and said, "Come to me, and some of you shall earn a gift that will aid your people, but be aware, this gift comes with great pain."'

'The first of the Men came forward. He was well aged and his hair, once black, now flecked with grey, and many called him Blue-Hair. He said to the Land, 'I have lived long enough, and my people have need of my aid. What do you ask of me?'

'And the Land said, "You must die, you of blue-hair."'

'Blue-Hair said, "I have watched my children die. I do not fear this. What else do you ask of me?"'

'And the Land said, "You will feel great pain."'

'Blue-hair said, "I feel pain when I wake every morning for I am old in age, yet nothing is greater than my fear for my kin. I do not fear pain."'

'The Land said then, "Then I give you my gift," and he slew Blue-Hair. He took Blue-Hair's blood and body and before the Younger Ones' eyes, Blue-Hair's bones broke and fur sprouted. Soon, Blue-Hair was no longer one of Men, but had a great maw, sharp teeth, and claws. The Land then gave him a piece of Fire and Blue-Hair awoke.'

'More of the kin of Blue-Hair came forward, and soon there was a host. They were the Wolves, the gift of the Land, and the Land then spoke to the Younger Ones, "These are your brothers. They shall aid you in your need, but be aware, they hunt well and have a great hunger.'

'And so, the Younger Ones thanked the Land and together, they hunted alongside the Wolves."

Haleth ended her story and looked to her parents.

Fanuilos did not speak. 

Girion said, still cautious, "Where did you learn this story?"

Haleth frowned, "You did not like it?"

Girion leaned forward and took his daughter closer, serious, but gentle. "It is a story, but it is not one to be told again." 

"Why not?" Haleth asked, growing in anger. "You call me little wolf-friend! You call upon their aid when you hunt!" 

Girion sighed and said, "If my uncle told you this story, he should not have."

"What is wrong with it? Heden said no one likes the Land! I like him! Why should I not? We live here do we not?" 

"He is cruel, Haleth," Fanuilos said.

"Why?" she cried. 

"Because he doesn't give us warmth!" Fanuilos snapped back.

"He is why we lost the Fire and why Winter has come, Haleth," Girion said, before his daughter could answer. "He is the reason why we must travel now across the snow and ice. He no longer cares nor aids us."

"But it's Winter who is killing us!" Haleth cried.

"She gives us mercy," a man behind her father said. He was Haldad, a priest of Fuiheskilez, and father of Eoforhild. He was large, like his brother, but dressed in pale colors and his face ashen with paint. He had marks of vertical lines down his cheeks.

"I don't want her mercy!" Haleth cried out. "She killed my brother and she killed Ealdygth! She is cruel! What has the Land done to us?"

Haldad spoke, his voice deeper and more firm than his brother's, "He has been bound for a reason, child. He created war and malice on this world, and he stole and murdered for his greed. Wolves eat us, Haleth. Draugluin was the first Man, and he was the first Wolf. He ate his own children in his hunger."

Haleth began to cry, in anger and emotion. 

Girion pet his daughter's back and asked, "Where did you hear this story, Haleth?"

She shook her head and her father could not get an answer from her as she cried into his furs, so he held her in silence and pet her head. He looked to his brother, and his brother understood that they would talk later. 

Haldad left them to tend to the preparations for the night, and soon Fanuilos joined the rest of their clan. She urged Eoforhild to go to Haleth and Girion was able to coax his daughter to play with her cousin. Girion watched them briefly before he left to speak with his brother.


	3. Haldad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War of Winter will have several perspectives.
> 
> This is the start of Haldad's story.
> 
> Haldad is Haleth's uncle, a priest of Fuiheskilez, and one of the Race of Men. He is older than Girion, who is Haleth's father. They reside in the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Valar = Balar  
> Ainur = Ayanuz

Haldad surveyed the wood and tended to the fire, murmuring a low song in Taliska. The words were smooth and warm, and the fire reacted. He sang to it the ancient song, calling the spirit of the fire to rise.

_Come to my embrace,_  
_Ember-child so fierce._  
_Born of the Mother_  
_And of the Lightning,_  
_Come to my embrace._

_Brighten the shade-day,_  
_For the silver is not enough._  
_Warm us, sun-sibling,_  
_And seek out the secrets_  
_That the Winter One_  
_Tells us in the Dark._

Girion watched his brother murmur to the flames and many of the others gathered round as the sun above sunk down into the horizon, seeking the warmth of the fire. Haldad ignored them all and continued to sing lowly. 

_Come to us brave one,_  
_Ember-child who travels_  
_In the Darkness beyond_  
_The Door of Night above,_  
_Come to us ember-child._

_She walks among us,_  
_The Pale One, The Winter._  
_Show us her visage and_  
_Warm our heart and body._  
_Come to my embrace._

_Flicker and shine,_  
_Stay true and warm,_  
_Ember-child of the Balar,_  
_The Night has come,_  
_And we have need._

Girion sat beside him, and Haldad knew he was displeased, but it was not with himself. It was with the situation. Girion did not have the same dislike of the Winter One as his wife did, which Haldad could not fault her for, but he had no love for her either. It was difficult to love the Pale One, she who brings death and mercy in the same breath.

"I will not stop your child from gaining answers," Haldad said. His brother snorted.

"You did not tell her that story?" Girion asked and eyed him carefully.

Haldad raises a brow and said, "No. That is not one of mine. It was probably one of the other children." 

The fire before them flickered and a family across from them shared some of their meal amongst each other as they huddled together for comfort. They had recently had a new baby, and he was suckling now. This was their third child. Their first was whittling now, but their second had died from illness.

Girion watched the flames dance before them, as if trying to read further into its pattern, what it may tell him about his daughter and the future.

“She needs futher training,” Haldad said. 

“Fanuilos,” Girion started.

“I understand, but she has the gift,” the priest said. “It will continue. Training or no.” He looked to his brother. “It will be safer for us all if she is trained.”

“We do not want that life for her,” Girion said, and his brother understood. He knew as well as any, the terrible and painful burden it was. Girion grew up watching him train. Lowly, he asked, “Is it the Pale One?”

“I cannot answer this, brother,” Haldad said. 

“Can you train her enough and to stay away?” Girion asked. 

“I cannot say.”

“What can you say, then?” Girion asked.

“That I must speak with her,” Haldad said, and he stood. 

“Where are you going?” 

“I serve us all, brother. I must speak with Almiel.”

“Is it her time?”

“She will not recover, but whether she passes on this night or the next, I cannot say.”

“You cannot say many things,” Girion muttered, and to this Haldad gave a grim twitch of the mouth.

“It is the nature of the-world-that-is,” he said, refering to Eä.

“And of the white-wife,” Girion said, referring to Fuiheskilez.

“Yes, her as well,” and with that Haldad left his brother and headed away from the fire towards the outskirts of the camp to where a woman was dying.

. . . 

Haldad passed into the tent, where Almiel lay. She was his mother's age, but she had passed on years ago. She was under a heap of furs and her grandson was changing out the coals that kept the tent warm. He was older than Haleth, and he shivered at the cold air that briefly entered upon Haldad's arrival. 

“She is having trouble staying warm, door-keeper,” Almiel's grandson said. It amused Haldad the ways others always referred to him. _Door-keeper_ , he though, _because he believes I will free her from this pain and most importantly, the one that is keeping her here._

Almiel shifted under her furs, but neither man took notice of her, for she was lost to the world, unspeaking, unseeing. She had not spoke to a single soul in the past two days. What she ailed from, they were unsure, but the medicine they had access to could not heal her, and so, she continued to fade from the world.

Haldad took up a seat next to Almiel's bed. 

Her eyes were blank. They functioned, but the woman behind it was lost. She opened her mouth, but did not say speak. Her breath shuddered and she continued on in this way. 

Haldad inspected her. 

Her grandson continued, “She will not eat.”

“And water?” Haldad asked, reaching for his tools strapped to his belt.

“No water either, husband of the shadows,” the young man said.

“Have you said your farewell?” Haldad asked.

“My parents will be by the fire. They said theirs days ago. I have said my farewell,” the grandson said. His mother had been unable to watch hers fade, and so, when she learned that it was Almiel's time, his mother gave her goodbyes and did not return to the tent. Her husband stayed with her, helping her during this grieving process. In their stead, their son had cared for Almiel in her final days.

Haldad brushed Almiel's hair. “Then you may leave. Do not return until I come for you,” he told the young man.

The grandson took one last look at his grandmother before grabbed his pack and left. 

Haldad turned his attention to the coals now, shifting them. He brought out his set of ritual tools. He dipped a stick into the fire and blew at it until it smoked and held ember. He shifted the coals again, and the tent began to cool. He muttered a small prayer, that which called the Fire away—the opposite in intent of his song earlier in the evening.  
He drew the furs away from Almiel, and it was clear that her form had shrunk considerably in the past few days. She showed an age beyond her own. He took the bladder from his hip and wetted a cloth and washed her, all the time singing through his throat. 

The song transcended Mannish words, and it was one that he had learned from Lady of Compassion in the snowy wastes as a child. It sounded for the wind to come and of the Eagles of Manawenuz aided by Dinethiz to reach Almiel. It sounded for the Fire to release its hold and go back into the Night, for Almiel must diminish. It sounded for the Land to release its hold on her spirit and mind and for the Lofty One to aid her spirit into the Sky and to the High Mountain. It was a song of air, of cold, and it banished warmth and fire from the tent. 

Neither Haldad nor Almiel felt the cruel harshness of the cold.

Haldad finished the song and the cleansing of Almiel. She shifted and shivered in her bed. He poked at the coals again and the embers within were dying. 

The smoke from the stick, which put out the sharp scent of pine and it wafted around the tent with its own secret source of wind.  
Haldad began a new song, and this song was of the Pale One, the one with black feet and blue face. He sung of the cold wind that ate bone, of the snow that took flesh, and of the night that stole breath. He song of the cold embrace of the Shrouded One and of the ice that held. All the while, the room grew colder, and his breath came as mist in the darkness. 

Haldad's work continued through the night.


	4. Haleth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War of Winter will have several perspectives.
> 
> This is the start of Haleth's story.
> 
> Haleth is one of the race of Men. She is the daughter of Fanuilos and Girion. Her uncle is Haldad and a priest of Fuiheskilez. Her younger cousin is Eoforhild. They reside in the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Valar = Balar  
> Ainur = Ayanuz

_She walked along the twisting tunnels of the earth, dug by a great wyrm. The walls were smooth and felt wet, but this was a trick of the mind, for they were cool but not damp. She could not see, but she sensed the world around her. It was dark and quiet, but not lifeless. There was water within the walls, fresh water, but also toxic water. There was life shifting around, just as there were bodies, and the life ate on the dead. She continued on her way, and the route was long._

_She could feel the rock and stone around her, even if she could not see it. There was no light this far down inside the earth. It was slow, but it wrapped around her and she was suffocating. She thrashed, but the power of it was too great, and she could not move her limbs. She screamed and yet could not make sound._

Haleth, bundled in her furs, alongside her parents, slept, and in her sleep, she shifted and whimpered.

 _The force of the earth around her was relentless, and there was no light, but then in amongst the darkness, there was a sudden force of cold, and the earth shifted away, releasing its grip on her. She shivered and felt the cold's cruelness._

_She rose in panic. The earth was oppressive, yet now she could not find purchase around her and so she wished for it back. She felt the earth move and a cool darkness around her. She heard her uncle chanting, and at first, she thought it to be in the old languages that he knew and understood well, but its words confused her and soon she could not understand nor hear them, but rather feel them being spoken._

_She could not find the earth any longer, and now it was only cold, ice, and darkness. She thrashed, much like how she thrashed when the earth was crushing her. It whispered to her in the voice of her uncle and she cried out to it, wanting to be free. In the darkness, there was a soft glow, and she felt a rush of happiness. There was a being within the light, she realized, but something within her to told her to be afraid, to not speak to it._

_The being inside turned towards her and she saw within its face that it was greater than any darkness that she had ever known. It was not the night, it was something more menacing and more dangerous, something that wanted to consume her and destroy the little light that she held._

Haleth woke, covered in night-sweat, and shivered deeper into her furs, trying to escape a chill that she could not shake.

. . . 

The morning brought cold slices of preserved deer. She sat by the low embers of the clan's fire, watching the smoke. Eoforhild was with her and they huddled together in silence. Eoforhild was younger and was not fully awake yet. Heden, who was older than Haleth, yet smaller than her, was hunting through the dirt with a stick. Glaedwine, who was the eldest of the children was by the fire, weary, and huddling in furs. He clearly had not slept well that night.

She looked at him. He was in puberty and acne-pocked, but he was not unattractive to her. She knew his grandmother was dying and that her uncle would therefore be with her. They did not speak often, she and Glaedwine, but he had been in his grandmother's tent the past week. She felt pity for him, as he did seem to be taking the impending death well. She continued chewing her deer meat pensively, still shaken from her night terrors. Eoforhild shifted next to her, yawning and made grumpy, sleepy noises.

“Papa wants us to help him weave today,” Eoforhild said. 

Haleth grunted. Her aunt died last sun season and since, she and her parents have helped Eoforhild and her father. This was not unusual in their clan, as they all helped each other, and all efforts were in aid to the clan as a whole, but sometimes Haleth grew tired of being around Eoforhild. She wished she could practice bow and javelin skills with Heden more. She enjoyed watching the shafts of wood fly. There was a magic in their flight and she so often wished she could fly. She envied the birds on the rocky cliffs and often wondered what it must be like to see the land from so high. She always wanted to see one of the large eagles of her uncles' stories. 

She often grew tired of remaining in the camp. Eoforhild enjoyed working with her father. She was younger and disliked the vast, flat unknown that Haleth so often found solace in. It was rejuvenating, exploring the inhospitable land, with its short, low scraggly bushes and rocks. 

Glaedwine tipped, fighting his weariness. Eoforhild looked at him, frowning. “Is he okay?” she asked Haleth quietly. 

“No,” she said. 

Glaedwine took no notice of them.

Some of the adults of the clan walked by the children, talking about tracks they found recently. 

“Let's go, Eo,” Haleth said. “Let's help your father.”

Eoforhild grunted.

“I know its cold,” she said. “But if we finish weaving, maybe we can play with Heden today.”

“You hate him,” Eoforhild said. 

Haleth shrugged.

“You hate weaving, too,” she said.

Haleth remained silent.

“You don't have to help,” Eoforhild said softly. “My papa and I can do it.”

“I will help you, little cousin,” she said. 

“But you don't want to.”

Haleth sighed. “No, I want to practice with the bow,” she said. “But I will help you.”

Eoforhild nodded and said, “Okay, let's go.”  
. . . 

It took the better part of the morning to help Eoforhild's father. Haleth enjoyed his company. He was soft and kind and not at all like his sister, Haleth's mother. He was crafty with his hands, and so often he was the won who wove baskets, nets, and crafted tools for the camp. He favored his right leg. He suffered a bad injury to his ankle when he was younger and therefore was no longer able to travel well on it. This caused the clan trouble when they had to travel. His skills with his hands were invaluable, however, and so, everyone complained quietly. 

With the help done, Haleth and Eoforhild ate lunch. One of the midwives had cooked tubers with fat and had given them some sour red berries with a touch of honey. They ate with Eoforhild's father. He gave them tips on their weaving techniques.

After their lunch, Haleth dragged Eoforhild with her to find Heden. He was with his father, who was sharpening a sword. 

Heden's father eyed them, then stopped his work and went inside his tent. Haleth looked to Heden.

“Glaedwine's grandmother died last night,” he said.

Haleth accepted this. There would be mourning that night, a winter story, and Glaedwine and his family would be soothed, but no one would be too broken up about it. _It was about time_ , she thought.

“You have the winter magic,” Heden said.

Haleth glared at him. “My uncle is a priest of Winter, I'm not,” she said.

“But you have it too,” he said.

Haleth rolled her eyes and asked him where the target and bow were. Heden stared at her and shrugged, showing her.

She stretched, then set up the targets and began her practice. Heden was trying to teach Eoforhild to handle a dagger. Haleth knew she hated fighting practice, but it was necessary. Haleth ignored her younger cousin's discomfort and focused on her targets. She missed many at first. It had been many days since she had practiced, but as she started it up again, she missed her mark much less. Heden's father had returned to the seat outside his tent and watched the children. She ignored his stares. 

She hated that her uncle was a priest of Fuiheskilez sometimes. It was important work, she knew, and it did well for their family. It gave them more power in the clan but she couldn't forgive the Winter One and her greedy, icy claws. She faltered while drawing back her bow, took a breath, and drew it back again. She could not keep the night terrors out of her mind. She stared at her target, bowstring pulled back, and held her position. She tried to calculate her aim. _I wish I could aim at her_ , Haleth thought. _I wish I could shoot the Night-Shroud._ She released her arrow with a loud gasp as something hit her and there was a shock of cool wind. Her arrow flew off and snapped on a rock.

Eoforhild and Heden looked over at her. Her face grew red.

She looked around and spotted a sparrowhawk watching her, standing on a rock. She glared at it and turned back to the others. “It was just a hawk,” she said, but they had already gone back to their practice. 

She eyed the hawk carefully as she drew back her bow, continuing, but it did nothing but watch her for the rest of the afternoon. She tried to ignore it.


	5. Almarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War of Winter will have several perspectives.
> 
> This is the start of Almarian's story.
> 
> She is of the Race of Men. Her husband is Meneldur and she is pregnant with his child. They reside in the West.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Ainur = Ayanuz

Almarian rubbed her arms and shivered. It was drafty in the temple and dark. There were veils of varying shades of grey draped around the room and somewhere, water was dripping. Her husband, Meneldur, was in another room, speaking with a priest. There was a disturbance in the air and Almarian turned around. Standing there was a tall figure. They were thin and wore a pale grey veil. They reminded her of the ancient marble statues at the entrance of temple. With a rush of fear, she wondered if this figure was in fact on of these statues come alive.

_Savath îdh le_ , the figure spoke, and Almarian calmed.

Almarian watched the figure as it walked around the temple hall. She wondered how the figure was not frigid. The cloth of their robes were so sheer and thin. Almarian shivered again. 

_Fain lestath eridhcyll_ , the figure spoke again to her.

Almarian rested her hand on her stomach. The figure moved closer to her and crouched. Almarian could not see the figure's eyes, but knew that they were looking at her. 

_Aphado_ the figure spoke and stood, leaving through a dark door that Almarian did not see before.

Almarian looked around the temple room before standing and heading to the door. She paused, nervous, unable to see well into darkness before she head in.

The hallway was dimly lit and the figure before her glowed softly. The figure was fast and quiet and Almarian was afraid to lose them. The walls were black granite and this made Almarian shiver. She could not make out the ornate patterns carved into the stone, but could only note that they were there. She wished she had a torch or that the figure before her would speak in a language she understood.

Almarian could not speak Elvish of any sort, but this is what she assumed that the figure before her was speaking. Each time the figure did so, it gave her equal fear and wonder. She did not know what the figure was saying to her, but innately, she felt like she had an understanding. To calm, to follow the figure. She feared that the figure knew she was carrying a child. She did not believe that the figure would harm her or her child, but she feared a being that did not need to speak nor inspect her to know something so intimate. She had not told her husband yet. She was the only one who knew.

The figure led her into a wide room. The rock it was carved from was the same black granite as the hallway. It was an open room and the stars shone brightly above. Tonight, there was no moon. Her husband had not wanted to enter the temple today. He believed a night with a moon would have been a better night. Almarian had to assure him that it would be fine, but in truth, seeing the moonless sky now was something that immensely disconcerting. In the center of the room, there was a flat still, circular pool.

Her footfalls sounded abominably loud and as if she did not belong and therefore was trespassing. The figure walked around the pool. Almarian did not follow the figure and noted that the figure made no noise as they walked. Not for the last time, Almarian feld a dread of terror and a flight of fancy that the figure was not Man nor Elf, but rather a marble statue magicked into movement.

The figure stopped across the pool from Almarian and held still. The figure continued to glow faintly. 

Almarian did not have to wait long before a second figure, heavily shrouded, but this time in light grey colors, appeared and walked towards the pool. 

The figure did not look to Almarian, but it spoke. _Dartho_. The figure's voice was clear, yet indeterminable of gender, as with the previous pale figure. The voice was commanding and graceful.

She remained where she stood and admired the cool black room and the bright stars above. 

A third figure appeared, shrouded as the rest, but this one was in dark grey colors. She stood across from the lighter grey figure at the pool and took no notice of Almarian.

The three figures began to sing. The Song was soft and at first, Almarian could not discern from where it originated. It grew it volume and remained indecipherable to her. 

It was a gorgeous Song. It held notes of sorrow and of loss; of great travel and weariness. The three figures wove their voices and it was at once one voice and many. 

Almarian felt a great rise in her chest and soon she was brought to tears for the Song was so great. The words, if there were words, she could not understand, and it was of no language she knew.

As the figures sang and Almarian became transfixed in the emotions it brought forward, the stars above faded into shadow. She did not notice this until soon, all she could see was the glow of the figures before her. Despite the sky's unnatural darkness, devoid of stars and moon, the pool before them was darker. 

Almarian stepped forward towards the pool and the figures continued to sing. She could hear nothing but the Song and when she reached the pool, that which was darker than any darkness she had ever known, she knelt before it. 

She felt the fire beneath her breast and the fire within her lower abdomen, that which she realized to be her child. She stared within the pool.

_A lone figure walked through the snowstorm, barely visible, and stiffly so. The figure collapsed, but with difficulty, they stood and continued on, heavily bowed and slow. The wind roared, dragging down the figure, so that they were almost crawling, yet no matter their difficulty, they continued. Every time they fell, they continued to walk._

_A man rested in the shadows of a rock, the world around him red dust. He wore a floor-length camel hair cloak and there were many piercings across his face and the rare parts of his skin that was visible was painted with whites and reds. He pulled the hood of is cloak to further cover his face and remained crouched, waiting. The sun bore down, bright and painful above._

_A woman, bundled heavily by furs, sat in a small tent atop a frozen lake. She chewed on dry pieces of meat. She watched the fishing line with impatience. She huddled further into her furs and rubbed at her hands, chewing the last of her dried meat snack._

The three figures around Almarian continued to sing.

Almarian remained kneeling before the pool and deep within her, she felt ill, an illness not of the body, but of the spirit. The fire within her breast and heart struggled against the darkness of the Song.

_Great, ruined obsidian pillars loomed above the lone figure in the snowstorm. The figure continued its struggle, but they fell, and did not stand back up._

_The man coughed as dust lifted around him. He looked to his hand and found traces of blood within. He coughed more, and this was no longer from the dust, but from an injury deep within._

_The woman continued to rub at her digits, but traces of blackness had already settled at their ends. She shivered, unable to warm, her lips blue._

Almarian's mouth gaped open, the sensation of illness within her was too great, and the oppression of the darkness that was beyond any sort of earthly darkness grew on her. The void-like pool before her shifting and moved unlike any form of known liquid. _The Song_ , she thought with difficulty. _It is the Song._

_The figure in furs no longer moved, and so was covered in the snow; the body lost warmth and heat and the spirit within passed beyond._

_The man in the camel-hair cloak continued to cough, his mouth spewing red foam and he began to convulse, losing his balance. His form stilled and the camel-hair cloak wettened around the middle of his form._

_The woman inside the tent grew more sluggish and did not react when her line twitched with the signal that a catch was made. Her face has turned from blue to white. Soon, she does not move nor breath, and all signs of warmth in her has faded._

The substance rises from the pool, shifting and formless. It reaches Almarian and her mind reels in terror. The Song continues, yet she finds she cannot move away from the substance. The figures before her glow, and in their shrouds she sees the Pale One.

She opens her mouth and the substance flows in and down her throat. It has no taste.

It curls within her body and she can feel it moving within, searching for her fire and for the fire of her child within. 

The Song is all she knows now, and for that she can no longer see nor touch the world. Almarian only knows of the Void, and the Being who stands at the Door of the Night. This Being has fire within itself, but it is encased in the Darkness-that-is-Beyond-all-Dark; it shifts and writhes in its state. It has many limbs. It watches her, fire deep within its eyes. The Veil of Night covers this fire, and Almarian feels its hunger and its greed for all Light. The fire within her breast aches as she feels a sudden desire to feed it.

The Void substance within her settles in her lower abdomen, finding its place beside her child's fire.


	6. Ayanuz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the story of the Ayanuz [Ainur] and the aftermath of their decision to banish Mairai [Mairon] through the Door of Night, and into the Void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Ainur = Ayanuz  
> Maiar = Mayaz

The Land was quiet. It had not shifted nor moved since the War had ravaged it. The All-Consuming Fire in its breast had cooled and fallen low. It was but mere warmed coals and embers.

In its place, the Winter had risen. Snow blanketed the Land, constraining it. The Winter enjoyed this. 

Yet, the Winter was not assuaged with its claim on the Land. It soon grew hungry for more.

The Winter crept across the Sea, but the Sea did not take to being chained as the Land was.

The Sea grew and shook off the ice.

The Winter spread across the Land more and attempted at the Sea again.

The Sea rebuked against the new ice, but at the edges, it remained.

The Winter made its move on the Sea a third time, and this time the Sea faltered in its rebuff.

The Sea began to chill and harden on its surface. 

The Winter made its attacks, and the Sea now resembled the Land. White replaced blue.

The Lord of the Sea rested within the safety of the depths, and the Winter ravaged the surface of his realm, for the Winter One would not rest in her hunger.

But in his great depths, the Lord of the Sea could hear all. Sounds travel well through water, and here, in the deepest, darkest of his realm, he could hear what the Winter was doing above. He gave order to his servants and they slowed the progress of the Winter through water current.

The Winter was harsh and unforgiving. Any of those it could strike down, it took no hesitancy to do so.

The Winter One had taken the Fire within her Shadows, and from his knowledge, she learned new forms of war.

The Sea now suffered attacks that mirrored the great Lightning of War. From the icy surface, the cold struck through the waters, forming ice pillars that reached the Land below, the cold freezing the surrounding rock. Life died on contact, claimed by the Winter One.

The Sea was failing, for the Winter grew from that which was countless and endless. The Winter One was of Shadow as much as she was of the Light, and not even the Land, the strongest of the Ayanuz, was able to rebuff the strength of the Shadow unaided.

The Lord of the Sea called now to the Land in secret.

Through the War of Wrath, there were no more of the Mighty One's charges. Many were eradicated by the Winter's forces, and of those that survived, they were chained, broken, and quiet. Message to the Mighty One was difficult to achieve.

Yet, the Lord of the Sea had an advantage many did not, for often the Sea-lord and the Mighty One rivaled and created together. Together, they played at war, and the Sea-lord's citadel was not solely of his own creation, but through the aid of the Mighty One himself. 

He called and called.

Even then, the Land did not answer; the Mighty One did not rise.


	7. Meneldur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War of Winter will have several perspectives.
> 
> This is the start of Meneldur's story.
> 
> He is of the Race of Men. His wife is Almarian and she is pregnant. They live with another family. They reside in the West.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Ainur = Ayanuz  
> Maiar = Mayaz

Meneldur sat, watching his wife, who was uncharacteristically pale and asleep. She fitfully moved in her slumber and he watched, unable to do anything to help her. He had carried her from the temple of Fuiheskilez and had made a pitiful encampment not far from the entrance, unable to take the journey down the mountain path until daylight, which by his observance of the night sky, should be not be long. As soon as the sun rode out from the horizon, he would begin the trip. He hoped that she would awaken, for if she did not, the trip would be an arduous one.

He settled under a scraggly tree and found that no position would be particularly comfortable due to the rootwork and rock, but he had no other option. He had lain his wife over the saddle blanket. It reeked of the musty sweat of their mount, but it was soft at least, and their horse was enjoying the freedom from the tack.

Lying down, he tried to push what the priest had said to him out of his mind so that he may rest until morning. He struggled with it, torn over his emotions—elation that his wife was pregnant, yet at the way the priest spoke of it, it made him fear for his wife and the life she carried within. He fell asleep despite his fears.

_He could hear Almarian screaming. He ran through the dark brush to find her, scrambling, calling to her. He fell and scrapped his leg, but did not stop his hunt. At times, he spot glimpses of her. Something dark curled and oozed around her, feeding off her, and every time, she disappeared. He could not reach her, and her shouts were maddening to him._

_The brush wrapped around his legs and he struggled to get free. He kicked and lashed out; he tripped and he could feel sharp small pain on his legs and hands from the rough brush; he felt sticky with blood and could taste the unloving dirt. As he made progress towards his wife, the brush and ground grew more difficult to traverse, and then he would be rebuffed by that oozing, hungry darkness. Almarian would disappear and he would have to make a new struggle forward._

_It was a losing battle and he grew more and more weary; her screams became hoarse and more pained. He could not reach her._

_She disappeared again, swept away by the darkness, and in his confusion, he was brought down to the soil. The foliage around him ate at his legs, and he could not move. He screamed and flailed, panic overcoming all other thoughts. The brush and vines continued to bite into his flesh, burrowing beneath the skin, into his muscles, wrapping themselves into the bone._

_Meneldur screamed, and his dream was pain. All thoughts of his wife had fled._

Day had not yet broken in the world, but that was not unusual. In the North and the farthest reaches South, the sun never showed itself, even in day. Day and night were different shades of black and grey. Even here, in the West and middle-lands, the Sun did not show itself with any great fervor. It was slow and sluggish to rise, struggling against the Night. Morning did not come easily and it came without grace or fanfare. There was little reprieve of the nightmares from the night before, and often, many who awoke in cold sweat found that the nightmares made their way into the waking world.

This was how Meneldur found himself, still a slave to the terror of his restless sleep. He was hungry and bitter. He unwrapped his morning bread—it's true origins, he was not aware of, but the legend of the bread was that it was a descendant of an Elvish recipe. No matter, it was nutritious. Any magic it was meant to hold was long lost. He chewed in the cold, dewy, and dull morning; he had no desire to light a small fire. Better to continue on our way to town than to linger here, he thought to himself. His wife had not yet stirred. Despite his love for her, he was angry that she remained asleep and that it was he who would suffer this morning. _Better to suffer together_ , he thought. _But no_ , he realized, _she would have found something positive to say_. Finishing his bread, he sighed and rose up. After relieving himself further away on the rocks, he began his work on retacking the horse, who puffed out her stomach when it came to cinching the girth. Meneldur couldn't fault her; he wouldn't want to carry the heavy leather and be strapped up like that. He would have puffed out his stomach, too, if only for a bit of breathing room. 

Meneldur had tried to wake his wife, but found that while she had woken up, she was listless and acted as if she was drugged. Cursing their choice to enter the temple on a new moon, Meneldur managed to get her on the horse, and he rode behind her, keeping her in place. 

The ride down the mountain pass was an uneventful one, barring that he had to keep Almarian on the horse, and that he longed for their bed and for a restful sleep. It was when he reached the forests below the temple that he found himself in a new state of trepidation. He could not keep his nightmares at bay, and found that he jumped easily as snow fell and shadows moved. He kept to the edge of the forest and did not relax until he entered the town proper. 

The town itself was not very busy nor cheerful. Just as the sun rising was not a grand fanfare, morning was not a welcoming event to the townspeople. The morning was cold and dull with grey; only the baker, weary from the night's work, was awake. Those who tended to the livestock had fallen asleep, huddled in their furs, letting their great wiry dog do their work for them. The town was not well-populated; most had left or died. In the warmer months that had grown more and more infrequent, some travelers would come and make trade, but there was talk that perhaps the travelers will not come again, and so the town was in the middle of a decision—travel for better living prospects or stay were they were now and pray that the winter would take pity on them. 

Meneldur reached his home, that which he shared with another family for conservation of resources. Here he floundered, wishing he had help in dismounting, but the family's son came out of the house, for he had the forethought to welcome them. His name was Belen, and he helped Almarian down from the horse; she flopped uselessly, and it was a great trouble, and not for the last nor first time, Meneldur felt an inner spark of anger towards their trip to the temple. He feared muttering any curse to Fuiheskilez herself and to the temple priests, and he did not have it in himself to make a curse to his wife, but he could still curse the event itself. 

Belen took the horse out back, to which she was eager for, and he removed the tack and wiped her down. Meneldur, therefore, half-carried his wife inside and placed her on their bed, then he entered the kitchen to obtain a small meal. When Belen found him, he was heating the water for his kasha. 

“There's some butter below,” Belen said, and without prompting, he opened the door to the cellar and fetched a lump of it.

Meneldur cooked his porridge in weary, strained silence. When finished, he placed one in front of Belen and took one for himself; he placed some butter into his and mixed, then ate, still in silence.

Belen watched him for a moment, before doing the same, hurriedly, for he disliked it when his kasha grew cold. 

After finishing, Meneldur scraped his bowl, making sure there was no waste in his bowl, then taking both bowls, for Belen had finished his portion, he cleaned them with the frigid water. There was a bucket for the dishes, and the ice over it was thin, but the water below pierced his hands and so he washed them quickly. Only when he was done everything, he sat down by the hearth embers and tried to warm his hands. Belen sat with him, waiting for the news.

“She is with child,” Meneldur said. 

“That is not a surprise,” Belen said and when Meneldur looked at him, he gave a small, sheepish smile.

“No, it is not,” Meneldur agreed. “But she is with two. We will need to plan accordingly.”

“Twins?” Belen said. “We may have a enough, but who can tell? It is growing colder when it should be growing warmer.”

“There is the South,” he said, but without much hope in the prospect of what the South would bring.

The house creaked and elsewhere, Belen and Meneldur could hear others stirring. Meneldur could not blame them for rising so late. In the house, only Belen was an early riser. When Meneldur asked as to why he rose with the morning so fervently, Belen responded that one day, maybe, the sun will be as she was in the tales; in her true, fiery glory. Meneldur had scoffed at him, but sometimes he wish had that same young, foolish hope. 

“We've talked. There is word that the South is no less welcoming. Some are worried that there is no life whatsoever; in the old stories, it was dust,” Belen said.

“Damn the old stories,” Meneldur said, but even he felt the same despair that Belen felt; there was no safe place in the world to live.

“What did the priests say?”

“That we brought the Winter a great gift and to head where She is strongest,” Meneldur said sourly. 

“What will you do?”

But Meneldur did not answer his question and instead he said “I will need my rest,” and with that, he left to find his bed.


	8. Haleth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haleth is one of the race of Men. She is the daughter of Fanuilos and Girion. Her uncle is Haldad and a priest of Fuiheskilez. Her younger cousin is Eoforhild. They reside in the North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Ainur = Ayanuz

It wasn't until after he Sung to the fire that he approached Haleth. Her mother was nowhere to be seen, and when her father saw him approaching her, Girion gave excuse and left her to her uncle. 

“I don't want to talk,” Haleth said, an unsure edge in her voice. She felt a kinship with her uncle, but he could be harsh and cruel and therefore unpleasant all the same. She still felt the sting of his chastisement when she told her story of wolves even though she could not fully explain what it was that was bothering her.

“Then be silent,” Haldad said, and his voice was both warmth and ice at once.

Haleth sulked at that.

“I have spoken with your mother and father. They have given me permission to train you,” the priest said. “Enjoy your last night of freedom. Tomorrow I shall begin.” 

Haleth eyed him. Thoughts and emotions warred within her. She was joyed at the thought of finally training, to connect with the Bala that she so often heard within her dreams, but there was great trepidation as well. Just as joy flooded her heart and warmed it, so too did sadness quench that warmth. What training entailed, no one truly knew, but it meant she and Eoforhild would no longer hold the same relationship. 

Her priest-uncle knew his niece's pain well. He had to face it once himself. It is a heavy burden, being called to the service of the Ayanuz. When one serves for one of the Ayanuz, one becomes an _other_ , understanding and seeing more than any of those around you and therefore it is a lonely existence. He remembered the time when he was taken from his family, ordained by the wandering priest that had visited their clan. 

The loss and loneliness Haleth was to experience in the coming days was unavoidable. There was no use interfering with the process. She would hate him, her parents for allowing it, for the Ayanuz for making a claim on her. Haldad understood this and therefore did nothing. Such was life.

They were both silent and then Haldad stood and left her.

In truth, it was not her last night of freedom. Haleth understood that she lost it a long time ago, when she first was called by the Ayanuz, the first time she began her dreams, the first time she saw what her uncle did, and as a young, naive, foolish girl, she prayed she would one day do the work he did. Haleth lost her freedom from a very young age. She had only been granted a mercy to live for a few years before her indoctrination. Time ticked on however and now there was no more leniency to give. 

Haleth spent some time watching the others around the fire, unsure when she would be allowed another night such as this. She spoke with Eoforhild briefly, but it only soured her mood, and so Haleth left the warmth of the fire and wandered their encampment, passing through the residential tents and stopping by the edge of their temporary home. She could hear goats complain. The nights were growing colder and so many were now taking in their livestock.

Beyond the edges of their human camp, wolves howled and Haleth shivered at their call. Tomorrow, more hunters will ride out, Haleth knew. No matter if they killed the wolves, more took their number. _Our hungry brothers_ , Haleth thought, and then felt shame. _No, not our brothers. Our brother-killers._ It was only in more recent days had they appeared so often near the camps, and yet, Haleth still had not yet spotted one. She had, since, learned to tell their calls from the others. There was much debate in the clan as to why they were here now and in such number, but they provided meat and this was appreciated. 

Many of the camp took to their bedrolls, often sharing their sleeping space for warmth and comfort. At times, one could hear movement. Haleth had long ago learned to ignore it. Sex was not uncommon, although a part of her always felt fear for those who had it. If they were to have children, they would need to provide for it, and she often overheard the adults talk with trepidation over the clan's future.

She looked out into the darkened landscape. 

Something in the back of her mind fell into great fear and she felt the prey-urge to run. It was so sudden and unexpected that she almost did as her instincts told her, but she caught herself through confusion. As she wrestled with herself and her instincts, the shadows around her shifted unnaturally.

 _Guarhen_ , a voice spoke and immediately Haleth felt like if she was plunged nude into the snow. 

Haleth looked into the shadows around her, a part of her mind still reeling in fear and confusion. The shadows pulled up and around her, and the world was dark. In the deep recesses of her mind, she heard water dripping. She waited, senses alert.

 _Tolathom_ , the voice spoke, and Haleth shivered as the words felt like ice down her spine, and just as the shadows came, they were gone, leaving Haleth in the edge of her camp, alone.

The world was brighter to her now, despite that the sun had left and it was night now.

She held her arms around her, feeling a cold that was not the chilled air, but the cold of the shadows absent from all light. In the absence of complete darkness, the night still held light. There were the bright and glimmering stars, the arms of the Ayanuz not upon the Land—those who had no name, no visage, and no business with those who lived here—but there was no Moon, for tonight was its rest. As the stories called, it had once again grown too close to the Sun, and so she had burned it, and now it will be time for a renewed Moon.

Haleth walked a little further and sat upon a rock. She hummed a little to herself and thought of the stories her father and mother and the others in the clan had told her. She did not think of the stories her uncle had told her. She would get many more of those soon enough.

In the distance, she heard something rustling. She paid it no mind. The wild was never truly silent; there was always hunting, always foraging, and always the circle of life and death. Even now, when life was so much more scarce, so much more desperate to survive, it still existed, still continued.

She watched the stars with sad wonder.

“Many ages ago,” she said to herself and to the nothingness. “Twins were born. One was made through the actions of the Land, the Air, the Sky and the Water. Together, the Air, the Sky, and Water formed a seed and this they planted within the Land. The Land took the seed and welcomed it. He Sang to the seed within him and he was overcome with great love and awe in their ability to create. When it came time, the Plant-Gift was born. She was known as The Mother and when she came forth and all were in joy and awe. Yet in their confusion, there was another. They asked the Land who this was, for there had only been one seed. Why yet was there two born? The Land told them of his Song, of their intent of Creation, and so forth, they called this the Invention. To many, he is the Father.'

She rested, watching the stars above and to take in the cooling air of the night. She could not make out many of the details of the world, yet she knew of the shrubs and the evergreen, the rocks that scattered the soil, making farming impossible. She had been told that the Mother used to provide fruits on every bush, but now she found that the foraging team would bring back a rare handful. More often, they brought bushels of roots and bark to seep and prepare for meals. Depending on the season, which was growing more and more rare, they brought back sap. Haleth always enjoyed these times. The sap was sweet and smelled fresh and bright—the true essence of of a tree. Now, however, they more often boiled the bark and made tea of the leaves. On walks, it was easy to see the markings—small squares of bark, stripped away, in various points of healing. In the hard times, trees would be so stripped of bark and leaves and sap that they died. 

“The Father made many things and one of his great inventions was that of the Lamps. He took materials from the Land and without asking. With the help of the Lady of the Stars, the Invention formed two Lights, and the Air granted the Father rights to hang the Invention's gifts in sky.'

“Yet the Land was angry, for the Invention did not ask for the materials. 'These are mine' the Land said. 'You stole from me, you who I gave such Love to.' Because of this, the Lamps could not remain in the sky. They wanted to return home and so they would wander across the sky.”

“The Invention mourned this and so asked for the help of the Air, the brother of the Land. 'He calls back what is his!' the Invention said. The Air heard his plight and in love of the Invention's creations he went to the Land and said, 'Brother, we did not complain when we gave you the seed and you created twice from it. Show this same allowance to the Invention, your own creation, and end your call. Do you not remember your Songs to him when he was in your womb?'”

“The Land found he could not fault his brother nor his son, and so he ended his call, letting the Lamps be.”

“Yet the Lamps would not stay still, and so the Invention came to his father, the Land, and asked 'They do not obey. Why is this, you who kept me in your womb?”

“The Land replied to him, 'You, my child, my creation, are the same as them. You do not obey me and nor will they obey you.”

“The Invention asked for the Land's help, then, to bind them to place. Displeased that his son would not listen, the Land built the towers yet unbeknownst to all, they were not of rock and soil and metals, but of ice. Soon, the Lights melted the ice for they were too hot, too angry with being bound. The Lamps held such damage from the great heat and anger of the Lights that when they fell this time, they cracked and could not be repaired.”

Haleth paused again, feeling the cold creeping in, her furs unable to prevent it. In the distance, she could make out the lines of the mountains. They were forever ice-capped. The Lights had long since dimmed and could no longer melt it, for she was told that once the snow would melt and return every year. Yet the Lights were ancient and losing their strength. They had grown slow and weary. The Sun traveled less in a day and the Moon took its time renewing itself. She often felt wonder at the Father's creations, but saddened for the Lamps were long passed and soon, she felt the Lights would soon fade away. 

But then, she thought, is that any different? All things passed; all things faded. The Air had grown weary and old and no longer listened to the pleas during the windstorms. The Stars above had grown in distance and no longer held warmth nor cheer. The Water, they were told, was the youngest of the Five, but even so he no longer cared for the rains nor the snow.

Her mind wandered then to the Winter, the Night that was not Stars, and the Land. The Land was asleep, he that was the eldest of all. He that created so much. He that hated and destroyed. She watched the mountains and wondered if they were ever to wake again.

The Winter was strong. She persisted. She took on the wayward winds, she controlled the snows, and she held dominion over the Land. She continued for she was the only one left. She helps us all, Haleth remembered her uncle telling her. She is alone and therefore we owe her obeisance.


	9. Girion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Girion is one of the race of Men. He is the father of Haleth and husband of Fanuilos. His brother is Haldad and a priest of Fuiheskilez. His niece is Eoforhild. They reside in the North. He is one of the clan leaders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Ainur = Ayanuz  
> Vala = Bala

He could feel his wife's eyes on him, yet he took his time in oiling the blades. He kept his back turned from her; they would argue, he knew. For a long time, until they could both come to peace with their daughter's path. They blamed each other, they blamed themselves. They blamed his brother and secretly, they blamed the gods. 

His wife got into the cool sheets, weighed down by the many furs and blankets. _Winter is relentless_ , Girion thought, despairing that it seemed to only be growing worse when it should be warming. 

“Come to bed,” Fanuilos spoke softly. “I have need.”

He finished with his current blade and turned to her. “Is it cold?”

She gave him a soft smile, “When are they not?”

He nodded at that and eased into the covers with her. They kissed.

They wrapped around each other in an attempt to combat the cold that was ever pervasive at night. Girion drifted, weary from the day's work, but was unable to find sleep. 

“Will she return to us?” his wife asked, equally weary and unable to sleep.

“She will not,” he said, hesitating. “She will not return to us the same.”

“Your brother...” she said.

“Is still my brother and her uncle,” he said. 

“She could die.”

Girion did not say anything for a long time, then quietly said, “She will die.”

He felt Fanuilos tense, then say, “As your brother did?”

“Not the same way, perhaps,” he said. 

“But she will die; the Winter One will require it.” Fanuilos could not hide the anger in her voice.

Wearily, Girion said, “It is what is required. All in the service of the Winter shall die.”

“I wish it was another,” she said, bitterly. “Why must it be her? Why not one of the Sky? The Night or Day?” 

“One answers to the call they are given,” his voice betrayed his tiredness. They had this conversation many times.

More quietly, “Or the Harvester? The Hunter? One of those would have been best. We have need of food,” she said.

Girion could not argue with her there. It had been a long time since they had met a priest of the Hunter, of the Harvester. He said it was the time of winter, so harvests were rare and the animals had traveled south, but he could not deny that the winter had gone on for too long. Spring was not coming. They had counted the moons. Something was wrong; they would travel south, he decided then. They needed the warmth, the sun, the food. At this time, there should be fresh, spring berries and the herds would be taking great advantage in the fields. Yet, their clan's harvesters and hunters had found nothing but barrenness. 

“It is the land,” he said, and when Fanuilos said nothing, he continued. “The Winter is necessary, or he will rise again. He has been chained and must be controlled.”

“What of the plants? Of the animals?” she asked.

“He has taken them. We must go south.”

Fanuilos said nothing, contemplating the options.

“We have no choice.”

“I know,” she said.

“Our daughter,” he said, quietly.

“I know,” his wife said, an edge to her voice.

“The others have been wanting to leave; we must survive.”

“And our daughter must die,” and with that, Fanuilos was quiet.

Girion was left to contemplate the fate of their only surviving child, who, he knew, was fated to die, just as his brother did, and just as all other priests of the Winter had. 

Girion did not enter sleep with grace. It took him roughly and without kindness.

_All was dark. There was the sound of water dripping. It grew softer and the air around him was dank and uncomfortable. The air was difficult to breath—humid and oppressive. He tried to lever himself from where he lay, but the walls were slick. He fell and he grew in panic, trying to free himself from the rock. He grew tired in his efforts, bruised and battered, unable to make purchase on the rock. He panted and the dripping of the water continued. He sobbed then, powerless._

_The water seemed closer, yet no less urgent. He felt himself as if part of the rock that surrounded him. With each drip, he felt at how it ate at his flesh, at how it took, little by little, a piece of him. It was excruciating._

_He sobbed harder, crying out, bound within the depths of the earth, far below where his true body lay. He could remember all that lived above; he knew of its life, of the plants, of the animals. None of that mattered now, below, where all was cold, frozen, with no hint of fire or warmth. There was nothing but darkness, and to this he was bound. He could not move his arms away, nor his feet._

_And ever more, the water dripped, patiently. He was innately aware of the contents of the water—how it was not pure, but had collected minerals as it had seeped through the earth. It was acidic—a poison. It ate away his skin, drop by drop, with no reprieve. He felt the acid, the unrelenting presence of the water, strip him, melt him. He skin peeled away, then his muscle. It ate his bone and organs. He felt as it took his eyes and snaked into his skull to eat away his brain._

_He felt those pieces of himself below his ruined body, mixing with the water, creating a slurry of human waste, indiscriminate. It reeked of rot as the land made effort to return it to himself. Microorganisms and bacteria ate and processed it, hardy in their form. He felt a great love, then, for the smallest, least appreciated of life forms. They multiplied, ate, and entered the waste to the land. It was a quiet battle without fanfare and valor. It was drips of water and single-celled organisms._

_His body returned to him as the microorganisms continued their work. He moaned at the pleasure of it; of being gifted what he should—existence, physical form._

_The water continued its work and this cycle would not break. He writhed in pain of the torture that the water brought, then moaned in joy as the microorganisms returned the nutrients to himself._

_Soon he lost awareness of his flesh, bone, and blood. He could not figure when, but he lost the ability of a human form. He was beyond it. He was calcified, organic rock._

_He was bound even further into the land. Movement was difficult yet not impossible._

_Even the land held life._

_The water did not abade, in its slow, steady dripping, yet he felt as if it was far away. The pain it caused ached, and yet, he was so much greater than a human form. He was rock, and the land was vast. The agony was numerous, across the whole of the planet, and this he could take. He was not alone. There were many more among him; he was one member of the host of all life that had once lived._

_For a brief moment, he became aware that he had been sleeping and wondered if he had died._

_The thought quickly fled, and who had answered that notion, he could not know. Yet, he knew he was being watched._

_The land was alive; it was awake. It was waiting, he realized._

_He felt the whole of it, at its greatest depths and at its surface; he felt it all, and just as quickly as that awareness flooded into him, it was whisked away._

_There was a flood of pain and then he was in a garden. It was not of the land, but of the wildness and unpredictability that dreams wrought. Before him sat a being, ever-shifting, a jewel on their brow._

_He smelled poppies._

_The being before him spoke, their voice struggling to maintain a solid form._

_Girion understood, then, the choices that his clan must take, the sacrifice they must give._

Death is what your future holds, _Girion understood._ Death must come to all. 

The payment of your daughter is not enough, _and at this, Girion felt despair._ There is that worse than death.

The land must take your body, your wife's, and your clan's. No more shall go to the fire or to the snow.

_And Girion was given understanding why their songs of fire failed._

Fire no longer is its own; it is held in Darkness-that-is-Beyond-all-Dark. It belongs to the winter now.

Your clan will die; leave your brother and daughter. _The voice wavered and Girion struggled to understand it._

He awoke, his mind a jumble. What he dreamed, he could not remember well, but of what he knew gave him despair. They would not find food as they traveled south, for winter had taken that as well. There was no food-rich land.

Girion stayed in bed until his wife woke, in order to give her his warmth, but he did not go back to sleep. 

They would travel in search of food, he knew, and they would die in the barren cold.


	10. Meneldur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War of Winter will have several perspectives.
> 
> This is the start of Meneldur's story.
> 
> He is of the Race of Men. His wife is Almarian and she is pregnant. They live with another family. They reside in the West.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Ainur = Ayanuz  
> Vala = Bala

The town meeting was tense. Meneldur could fault no one. This was the seventh that they had on the subject. Another family wanted to leave. The argument was the same, yet even more strained. With each family that left, the town struggled further. There was no word of the families that had left already. The reasoning was no different, however. Food was scarce, the weather too unrelenting and dangerous. They begged for all the leave together. Strength in numbers. 

The counter argument was no less compelling. What would they do in an emergency? We had our forges and homes here. Travel was hard on the body. If they found no place to settle, they would die. No families have sent word back. Perhaps the city had turned them away. Perhaps there were criminals along the roads. With the scarcity of prey, they could have fallen to wolves and mountain cats. It's too dangerous to leave.

There was no answer to please all. With painful soberness, Meneldur knew there was little hope. As the argument continued around him, he felt all the fire leave him. The world was grey and full of despair. What use was struggling? Death would come for them all. His wife had not yet awoken. It had been days since the temple visit. How she subsisted and survived, he did not know, There were times when they shifted her, and she made noise, or small movement, but she did not gain consciousness. He feared for his children. Despite her lack of eating and drinking of water, she did not appear closer to death's door. At times, he grew in anger towards the Winter One, but then a new task had to be completed and his fire failed. The fight to survive was killing them all. It ate at their body's energy, and he could see it in them all—haggard and weary. Even the children did not have their youthful glow.

He felt the creeping of vines along his legs, plant-life digging into his flesh. He felt the whisper of something vast and hungry, desperate to survive. It hit at his soul, seeking blood, and ever fiber of his being fell into agony. Life was wretched and it tore him apart, preying on him, as if it was a grass spider to a cockroach nymph. He felt the acid seep into him, paralyzing him, melting his innards to make it easier to digest. He could not breath. Suddenly, he felt as if he was buried alive under the earth, plant-roots eager for the nutrition he would provide.

He stood, shouting in pain and fury. 

All looked to him, affronted and terrified by the outburst.

He panted, trying to shake off the oppression of life. He shouted again. Belen reached for him and he smacked his hand away.

Voices murmured. He could not make clarity of it. The world was aswirl.

He started off speaking gibberish, but soon his words became clear. “We cannot continue here. We will die. We cannot trust the city. They are no better off than us. We must leave here. Head South. The winter will reach us and this is one we cannot survive.” He clutched at his sides, feeling as if he would lose his heart, for it beat so fast. 

Belen helped lead him out and he did not fight it. He could not think, other than for his fear, and worse, he knew that he was one of the last anchors keeping everyone here in the town. He had fought to stay together, originally, and to fortify against the winter. But even he knew that the climate had changed. It was no normal winter.

Belen had questioned Meneldur on this. He had no answer, for he did not like it. What the Winter One did to his wife, he did not know, but it held a sign: it was no longer for the people. It was no longer the Grey Haven, to give understanding and grief. It was something different, equally the Snow and something far sinister. With great illness, Meneldur wondered at this. A darkness that was greater than the night itself. A darkness that _preyed_ on the Light, consumed it all, and left none in its wake. He feared the temple now, and those who served within. He feared his own wife, as she lay, cold and living, unresponsive, yet breathing. 

He stumbled on to the cold, frosted earth. Belen reached to aid him up, but he managed to croak out a refusal. He moaned, trying to dig his fingers into the soil. It was hard and unresponsive. His children would die, he knew. Everything that was their life was ruin. His wife dead. She had to be. She was no more than a shell, an incubator, to what grew inside, and that he feared greatly. It wasn't, couldn't be his own blood. He wanted to dig, to disappear. To be buried alive. Just kill him now, and place him out of misery. Feed his meat to the dogs. He was nothing, and could do nothing. 

Belen waited by his side.

Meneldur stood. He had no power within him left, but he moved, and that was all. Belen led him to the house. The horses snorted, but Meneldur took no notice of them. Inside, it was chilled, yet warmer than the outside. Belen laid more blankets on him. He sat there, half laying, keeping himself inward.

He had no plan. There was no way out. This was the world. On one side, certain snow and ice. Death. There was nothing more there but suffering. If he and Belen condemned it, the northern routes, then they helped sway the town to leaving south. To stay would be waiting for the jaws of winter. It would come, and there would be no fleeing once the snow reached too high. The horses would not be able to traverse it, and no city nor town would welcome an extra burden in mid-winter. To head south was a mystery; there was no tale of warmth or food that lay in these lands. They had long stopped hearing word altogether, and this was all the more disconcerting. They were in a vice between the cold and hunger. 

The priest had told him otherwise. Head North, the devoted said. Head to where Fuiheskilez is strongest. Head in to the worst of winter. Meneldur questioned this. There was no sanctuary in the ice. Darkly, he questioned everything. Trust in the Sky, the Giver, the Craftsman, the Hunter was all pinnacle to their society. They trusted and believed and knew of their existence. Or once, they did. Now, they only had stories. Perhaps the Elves, somewhere, knew of them, had spoken to them. The Dwarves would surely tout the existence of the Father. But the Atani? Who did they owe and trust? 

A great hatred roiled in Meneldur's breast. The Sky fled, for no longer was it any hue but foreboding white. The Sky had given in the Winter. It had bowed down to her and gifted her the Sun. The Sun no longer burned with such greatness. She too had given herself to the White One. The Harvester and Hunter? Oh, yes, they gave, and only when it suited them. They had grown lazy and cold. There was no hope to this world, and even the Dreamer had fled the minds of the Atani. 

The Winter One had poisoned the world. It hit him with painful clarity. She controlled all, and none sought to stand against her. None of the Ayanuz saw reason to. They were nothing, the Atani. The Secondborn. The Race of Men. With great pain, he felt the vines seething inside him, roiling, ripping him apart just as they did in his dreams. He felt the wounds on his legs open, but below the skin, it was plant matter, no longer fat and muscle. They had sought upward, seeking his groin, tearing it apart, filling it in with life that was not human. The vines sought into his bowels, his stomach, his liver. They sought his heart most of all. And he was powerless to stop it.

He gave a strangled shout and awoke. He had not truly been asleep, but in another place inside his mind. But his shout of agony brought him to reality. Belen did not look up. Perhaps he made no noise at all. Meneldur huddled further the blankets, steeping in existential torture. 

_Belen will head South_ , he thought. _The town will do this. I shall head North, along with my dead wife. We are infected. It is the Winter. It shall kill us. We will burden the others._

Meneldur did not move for a long time. Belen continued his chores.


	11. Almarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War of Winter will have several perspectives.
> 
> This is the start of Almarian's story.
> 
> She is of the Race of Men. Her husband is Meneldur and she is pregnant with his child. They reside in the West.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Ainur = Ayanuz

The world was illness. She knew she was no longer conscious. Last she remembered was the darkness entering her. She had cried out in pain yet found her body would not respond. She had glimpses of the world beyond, of her body being lifted and moved, of people around her, of the cold. She could not react nor send signal that she remained inside. She feared and missed her husband. 

She found she was not alone, inside. There was life within her growing. At first, with joy, she thought it was her child, but it was foreign and had a mind to consumption. She feared it, this Dark Being. It shifted and writhed within her, never one shape nor form.

She waited in the shadows of her existence, avoiding the life within her. It would move, rolling around, an amorphous substance that radiated malice. She could feel its searching for food, but what it ate, she did not know.

She traveled ever further into the wilderness of her mind, seeking for a way out, for a way to escape the Dark Being. Above, she had the strong sense of night, a cold, unforgiving, lightless night. It terrified her, this vastness beyond. As she wandered her landscape—a dead mockery of reality—she grew convinced that this vastness was not the sky. It was starless and held no love of the Sacred Queen, the Guiding One, and it held no care of her husband, the Blessed One, the One who Listens. 

In all her time, she had held reverence to Ayanuz, must of all Fuiheskilez, the Lady of Compassion. Yet, she was the sister-twin to Abaradaz, and together, they formed the Night Sky in Whole. They were the two who became one. But whereas Abaradaz was stars, Fuiheskilez was the darkness. Now, she feared them. She felt empty. In her mind-shroud form, she wept in her terror. The grey priests had taken her trust and placed this darkness within her.

_Meneldur asked her to take care of the horse. He was busy repairing the door. The latch stuck, letting in a cold draft. Days had become miserable with chill that would not relent. They needed to conserve wood, for not enough was seasoned and ready for use. They had cut more, but it would be half a year before it could be used. They had argued, for she wanted to go into the woods to forage. They needed herbs for medicines, and at this time, mushrooms should be prevalent. He argued that the horse needed care first. She could not disagree there. The horse was transport, and if required, an emergency meal._

_It was not the logic that bothered her. It was his demeanor. Of late, he had been short and unfriendly. She had tried to appeal to him. It was the stress. They worried for the town, for their house and all its inhabitants, and most of all, for each other. They had recently found their last chicken, frozen. Their plan was to bring her in. The neighbors had few left, and one had a rooster. But before they could finish the pen inside, she had died. The night before was unusually cold. A rare winter front from the highest of poles—the breath of the Mother Wolf, it was said in Elvish lore._

_And so they had argued. She felt no love that morning from her husband. It brought on a sadness and it continued inside her all day. She did not want to take care of the horse, now. She did not want to do anything useful at all. She wanted to walk and to leave the world behind. It was difficult to remain in hope. The world was grey, always dull and grey. Night was black, the snow was white, but the world was colorless._

_She wanted to walk to the end of the shores, pushing past the blisters and pain in the joints she would feel. She wanted to walk into the waves and continue down and down until she drowned. She wanted to leave this world behind._

_The only hope she felt was when she was with her husband. Together, they were one. They may be unhappy, fearful, or angry, but they were, in those moments, together, and that made all the difference. But now, in this morning, they were no longer one. They were alone; she was alone. She wanted her husband back._

She heard the sounds of consumption. It was wet and made her sick to hear it. What the Dark Being was eating, she did not know. What there was to eat, she had no idea. What existed in this dead, mockery of the world? She did not believe her child to be alive. When the priests had bound her and called forth the darkness, when it had entered her, she had felt it force itself deep within her, and she knew it to rest near her unborn child. She weighed the possibilities. If her child was alive, it was in peril and she could not prevent it. In all likelihood, she knew if the being could, it would have eaten her child. It was easier to believe this than to know that she could do nothing to help it.

Where the Dark Being was, she did not know. She could hear it click and chitter in its enjoyment of its meal. She tried to keep her distance from it, but she had learned that it could track her. If she moved near it, it sought her out. There were times when she had hidden under the debris of the world she resided in now, and it had passed by her. It would lose its interest and leave her. She did not know why this was, but it was a brief relief. 

_They fucked. It was not without love. It was not without hate. It was desperate, seeking warmth in all the wrong places. They both smelled. It had been a long day, and both desired rest, yet they felt unfulfilled. Nothing in life was kind. It demanded all their attention. Repair the house, care for the yard, maintain the larder, repair the clothing and tools, and take care of the horse. There was no time nor energy to take in consideration the future, even though it weighed on their minds, dragging them down into despair._

_Almarian was worn, but she sought connection to her husband, just as he sought to connect to her. Yet she was greatly aware that they remained apart, even so intimately close. They had no energy to address this. All the same, it provided a morsel they were starving for, and they enjoyed that crumb._

_When finished, they lay, huddled and quiet. Meneldur slept. She remained awake, her body crying for sleep. Her mind so desired to rest, but her anxiety kept her conscious. She believed the best of her husband, that he did not mean to be cruel nor did he mean to maintain this rift from her. He was weary, just as she was. She cried in silence, feeling within her the great rising depth of cold darkness._

The shroud-world around her was not unlike dark, burnt and twisted metal. It was as if the world had bones to it and they lay bare before her—the trees, the underbrush, the houses, and even the rock. There was no color, here, but sooty black and the greater void above, lightless and limitless. She wondered at it, at the fallen forests, at the ruins of civilization, at the scatters of rock. On her touch, it marked her, and so she was quickly covered in a fine charred powder. It smelled heavily of ruined smithwork. It strangled her senses, for it was so acrid. It briefly reminded her of blood and its iron-scent, yet as it persisted, it tortured her, losing all sense of organics. She felt this was the world with its skin taken away, and at the root of it all, was a tortured skeleton of cold framework.

It held no potential for life.

As she moved through the landscape, she was coated in the iron powder. The twisted wreckage of trees and underbrush cut her, and so the powder lay within her wounds. She bleed for some time, yet whether it was the powder caking on to her or because she simply ran out, this stopped. Her wounds did not, and so the world cut into her and so the world layered on. 

She traveled, seeking the edges. The void-sky above showed no hint of stopping. The land she walked upon held no relenting. She no longer knew of where the Dark Being crawled. She did not rest and she found she had no need of it. Upon entering this land, she had need of food, of waste relief, of sleep. Yet as she continued on, as the world cut her apart, as the world replaced her flesh with its own, she found she had no needs.

She was losing sense of how long she resided in the shrouded space. She was losing sense of her world where her body lay. 

She stepped on to a rock, yet it crumbled beneath her, forming a plume of the burnt powder. She closed her eyes against it. When it subsided, she continued on, more carefully. 

Here, the powder lay its thickest. She was soon wading waist deep into it. The world was flat and she found she had no worry of hidden shards below. 

She found a massive sculpture. A ship, it seemed to her, yet made of metal. A piece of wreckage. She moved carefully around it. As she continued her exploration, she found many of these pieces and though not all identifiable, they appeared with a sense of danger and malice. 

Suddenly, there was a drop along the ground and she fell. It was not far, but she scrambled and tried to scream, taking in the powder. She managed to return to the shelf, coughing and in terror. She thought to turn back. Her hand, however, burned with great pain. 

She waited, frozen at the suddenness of feeling. She tried to inspect her injured hand, yet the world was in such darkness that sight made this difficult. The extent was unknown, yet with new terror, she felt a loss. Pieces of her hand fell from her and there was a dull sound as they fell into the powder.

She took her time, trying to ignore the pain in her hand, to ignore the new realization that she was losing her flesh. She tried to seek a path back, to find the edge so she did not fall again.

The bases of her feet hurt and with numb understanding she realized this was due to heat. The ground shifted beneath her and she tumbled, swallowing in more of the metallic powder.

She landed upon a sheet of charred metal, but before her now, tall and skeletal, hunched a massive form. She kept still, fearing it to be the Dark Being, and yet it moved with an unusual, pained grace. It appeared weakened and broken, as if movement took immense willpower.

Most of all, she felt the heat that radiated from it.


	12. Haleth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haleth is one of the race of Men. She is the daughter of Fanuilos and Girion. Her uncle is Haldad and a priest of Fuiheskilez. Her younger cousin is Eoforhild. They reside in the North. 
> 
> She has been taken into priesthood by her uncle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Ainur = Ayanuz

To Haleth, the world echoed in screams. It took her a long time to realize that these were hers and that she was no longer yelling. She was cold. This was beyond any chill she had known. This was not a normal chill, but that which one froze to death in. She grew beyond fear of losing her extremities and turned to acceptance of it. She was starving. Time was of no concept to her now. She had vomited in hunger, that strange illness where you body gave up that which it needed, and had reached beyond it. She was thirsty, her lips were cracking. She was dying. Her mind was wild and sluggish. Her vision was unstable and unfocused. She could no longer tell when she was awake, when she was moving, and in those rare moments of lucidity, she realized that she had hallucinated moving. She would find herself in the same position, when moments before, she believed she had crawled toward the blocked entrance of her prison.

For that is what she was in.

A prison of ice and snow.

It was the priest. It was the being that she heard speak to her, yet never had seen their face. They knew what she was. They knew her deepest inner thoughts and secrets. She was unable to withstand them—that pale, shrouded figure that radiated chill unnatural.

Haldad had given her away to the priest. They had shown up at dawn—when the Sun started her struggle against the storm ever present in the sky—and Haldad and Haleth had met with them. They both had eaten their breakfast, as paltry as it was. The priest did not. Afterwards, Haldad and the priest had spoken. Then the pale figure took her beyond into the forests, alone. The priest said nothing.

And now, she was here, beneath the ice and snow, in a small pocket, trapped, starving, dying. She tried to dig herself out, yet she could not stop this. She had cried; she had screamed. No one would save her. The shrouded priest had placed her here and none could reach her now.

She dreamed. At least, she believed it to be a dream. Consciousness was difficult to keep these days, and as they passed, she lost sense of sanity.

It was difficult to remember them. They were not of logic. Moments of here and there. Dreams of great wars. Of battles. Of bloodshed. She dreamed of the Mannish folk, of their rise. She dreamed of Draugluin—he of blue hair, he of the wolf—and she dreamed of how he was twisted and changed, how he turned on his children and consumed them. She dreamed of the ice and snow and how it drove back and killed the Wolves. She dreamed of great fire and the war of the Children. From the soil came from creatures twisted, creatures unmade and reformed, creatures of the Land's own design. She dreamed of it all. Of war, of famine, of death.

Of pain.

She knew that most of all.

And deep within her grew anger. It was kindling to her soul and it sparked. She felt great warmth within her, driving back the cold. She cried, for it burned her and threatened her.

The ice around her felt ever more cold, ever more dangerous. It oppressed this flame within. Ice and snow ruled the world now. She dreamed of that as well. It had encroached down from the polar caps. It had spread across all lands, upward and downward. It started at the highest mountain peaks and marched through the plains. Even now, it spread across the waters, the oceans, despite great difficulty for sea was turbulent and had natural defense against the winter. Salt won against the ice.

The fire within Haleth burned ever greater at the injustice and cruelty. The cold from the ice that formed her prison soaked in this heat. It grew soft and water dripped from her prison walls, and yet soon the presence of the ice forced the water to reform. There was no winning against the winter.

Haleth grew cold yet again and now, this was worse—wet amplified the chill.

She dreamed yet again, the fire within her weak.

_She could taste the water in the air. She stood among the cliff line where ancient rock jutted out. Plant-life was of scrub, grasses, and mosses. Beetles moved in around the clinging, desperate vegetation. The world before her was foreign and ancient._

_Before her shifted a great oceanic body. Waves grew and crested. The wind was sharp and stole all warmth. And from the great depths, she saw something move. It broke the surface._

_It rose, struggling in its form. What creature it was, she could not have said. Even within her dream, she reeled with revulsion and fear. It smelled even more so of the seas, of the life within. It had a carapace as much as flesh. It had reaching, sucker-covered arms and searching, sensory tentacles. It had a great claw to crack and its patterns and colors shifted. It had many eyes. In water, it floated gracefully yet upon breaching the surface, it compressed and struggled, which did nothing to help its terrifying appearance._

_The being was larger than the mass that had breached, for the rest of its body lay miles past and she could see no end. Haleth felt her heart stop in awe. She had seen nothing so grand, so powerful._

_Eyes on stalks watched her, just as eyes and sensory organs elsewhere explored the cliffs. It clung to the side of it, and Haleth could hear the strain of the rock to accommodate it._

_Wind fluttered around the being and foam flowed through its spiracles, coating its body with water. This was how it breathed, Haleth realized. It required the water. It had gills, she saw, and a gelatinous membrane._

_It turned its great, many-eyed head around. Despite its inhuman features, she fancied it to have a beard, which looked limp and unimpressive in the air. It seemed to have a coronet collected upon its head of that which it had found and prized—sea mosses, rocks, and uncut, raw gems._

_The being reverberated with song._

_Despite her revulsion and fear of the being, despite its ease at which it could crush her, she found its song entrancing. She wished to hear more._

_The ground shook and the being before her continued its song. Haleth crouched as the reverberations continued and across the shattered plains she saw a mountain move. The height of which reached the clouds above. There was no land that could reach such height, and as it moved closer, she realized it was another being._

_This was a creature of rock and ice, of heat and lava, ever strong, ever solid. It had movement, but it was slow, it was particular. Lava flowed from cracks in its surface, allowing for movement, and great billows of smoke trailed behind it. It was armored with old rock forms, but beneath its surface, she knew. She did not feel it, she did not sense it. She did not see it. It was knowledge. The being may appear slow, cold, and steady, but deep inside, it was molten. It was in great fluctuation, ever moving, ever burning. She knew that the heat within was greater and more dangerous than she could withstand. Fire was a pittance to the heart of this being. There was nothing that could hold against it._

_This being was a powerhouse, the tips of its rocky crown reaching the clouds above, and it scared her more than the now dwarfed being of water besides her._

_Then she heard its song. It was ancient and long. She realized she had heard it sing before, yet it was a song she easily had ignored. She had heard it every day of her life, resonating forth from the ground below, and therefore she had grown accustomed to it, taking it for granted. It was a song that called with a great longing, of sadness, and of immense love. Underlying it, Haleth realized that the great being too sang of anger, of desire, and excruciating pain. It sang and beneath its surface, she heard its love, its need to create, and its utter fury at its constraints._

_These two songs mingled—the caring and dangerous song of the sea, the long-standing fury and love of the land—and the two beings met together at the cliffside. The Dweller of the Deep pulled himself further onto the land with difficulty, and before her, it seemed to shift and change, its sensing tentacles, now useless, altering into lobed-fins and flippers. It's carapace appearing more akin to a turtle, forming a plastron along its belly. It kept a few of its eyes on Haleth, watching her with the unreadable expression of aquatic lifeforms._

_The Mighty One of the Rock knelt, yet to Haleth, it was akin to watching a controlled avalanche. Rock snapped and crumbled away, lava burst along its surface, allowing for its shifting, and the world around shook terribly._

_It appeared to take no notice of Haleth._

_The Mighty One rested a hand on the edge of the cliff and it crumpled under its weight. The ground shook and lava flowed, reforming and altering. Along this break, the land looked raw and new._

_They sang, the two, and Haleth found she could discern no words from it, and yet she understood. The two great beings of Water and Land were not entirely unalike. They loved their realms, yet where one stood, the other must submit. Where the ocean lay the seabed was chained, and where the water lay within aquifers, the land constricted it. They remained ever at odds. One would shift and the water within aquifers were released, flowing free into a river, and the land won islands. It was relations of cunning, not just of strength. Neither being truly desired their war, and yet they continued their trades and barters—to the suffering and terror of life around them. For as the land and water realms shifted, so too did life drown and crush under the weight of them._

_Yet the song now spoke of a new frontier, a new contender to their realms. And this, they did not enjoy. The Dweller of the Deep knew it was at great threat and danger and therefore had called forth the Mighty One of the Rock for alliance and aid. Now as they spoke, the Dweller had lost frontiers, there where life would slow and die, there where the waters could not flow. It feared that left unchecked, their new contender, the Darkness Beyond, would take all from the Dweller. The Mighty One did not share the same fear as the Dweller, for it knew of the Darkness Beyond. It knew and could survive its onslaught. Or so it believed—and that was its deep, secret fear—that even it, mightiest of all, would lose. The two sang, joined as one, rare for both, as the Mighty One did not enter equal footing with many, and the Dweller did not join nor sought companionship often._

_The ground shook and the fires deep within the Mighty One grew. It woke to song and its form shifted reluctantly, painfully, and the Dweller knew nothing of this pain. It could not understand pain as the Mighty One did. This is why it aided the Dweller, it of the Rock said, but the Dweller did not recognize this. And so as the Mighty One's form shifted, rock and mineral fell into the ocean vast. It gave its gift of salt to the Dweller—a poison to keep the Cold at bay. It gave enough to not poison the life of the Dweller's realm, enough that the Mighty One did not sacrifice its own protection from the Winter, and so, the fires within the Mighty One calmed. Yet to Haleth, it appeared dimmer than it had before._

_Eyes on the Mighty One and Haleth alike, the Dweller returned to its preferred waters—lobe-fins and flippers shifting, for the Dweller could never bind itself to one visage._

_And so Haleth was left alone with the Mighty One._


	13. Ayanuz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the story of the Ayanuz [Ainur] and the aftermath of their decision to banish Mairai [Mairon] through the Door of Night, and into the Void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Ainur = Ayanuz  
> Maiar = Mayaz

The Land heard of the Dweller's cries. The Land heard and felt its anguish and pain. The Land understood its peril and it did nothing to aid, for the All-Consuming Fire within was dim and weak.

It was too battered and too scarred. 

The Mighty One was the Mighty One Diminished. 

The Land did not shift. It did not rally. It remained silent to the Lord of the Sea.

And so the Dweller remained, trapped and quiet, too weak and unable to reach or call for aid from its siblings.

Up, among the High Mountain, the Lord of Skies was blind to the world beyond his purview. It was difficult to pass through the growing clouds and no matter, he could not rid the skies of them. These were not his, but rather the works of the Cold and of Shadow. 

His servants worked wearily, yet with great fear, for the wind was dangerous for all on Land and Sea. To battle against the clouds of snow and ice, they brought heat and force, yet too often they found it destroyed much life.

The High One could no longer so easily give word to his siblings, and nor could he contact the one below, the one who he dearly wished for word of, his brother, the Land.

In times that his winged servants breached the walls of snow and ice, they attempted to bring word to the Land, yet the Lord of Rock, the Mighty One—Diminished or Rising—did not utter a single word back. 

With great fear, the Lord of the Skies sought the life below his realm and found it lacking. 

Many populations have decreased and there was not a single sight of the Land's creations. The Lord of Skies found the dwellers of the stone, the Children of the Smith, and he found the Children of the Creator—of the Eldar and Atani. And yet, he found them unresponsive to his calls. 

In time, he understood that they could no longer hear nor understand him.

The borders of the Skies diminished and the High One maintained a stricter, smaller border along the highest of mountains, too far from the seas for his liking. There, he was kept in solace, wondering at the safety of his wife and siblings, wondering beyond at the Door of Night and what lay in the Darkness. 

He watched the struggling, cooled flames of the Sun as she rode, tired, fighting the Shadows, and he saw that she too began to suffer under the chill, yet he could send no aid nor word to her, fearing that her battle against the Cold and Shadow would put his servants in too far of danger. 

He watched as the reserves of effort and strength among his servants begin to fail. The Skies were losing and his grasp on the Winds was weakening.

The Lord of the Skies kept the gifts of his brother close, and watched with great sadness as it faltered. For it was the heat and movement of the Land that gave him great winds to work with, and without this gift of his brother, the High One had nothing.


	14. Eoforhild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eoforhild is one of the race of Men, the Atani who were descendants of the Talisk. She is the daughter of the clan weaver. Her uncle is Girion and her aunt is Fanuilos, father of Haleth, and a friend to her cousin. They reside in the North.
> 
> She has lost her closest friend to priesthood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Ainur = Ayanuz  
> Vala = Bala

That morning, they were given their orders. Eoforhild had arrived late to the fire gathering. She was helping her father. His foot hurt worse this morning. He said it had to do with the chill in the air. Heden had spotted her and gave her room by his side. Her cousin may have disliked him—he was small and brash—but Eoforhild did not have the same reservations. Haleth said she hated his hair. It was ugly, she complained. Eoforhild laughed at the childishness of this. It's true, his hair wasn't a very pretty color, and his face was a little lumpy, but she knew that the real reason that Haleth disliked him was that he tried to fight her and he always lost. Her cousin was ever practical and hated that he wasted his and her energy on it. She was stronger and he just needed to accept it.

It didn't matter now. She has gone to the Winter and they had separated paths. She would die and return anew, filled with unearthly song-magic. Eoforhild and the clan would continue until they died from starvation, injury, or illness. 

Girion was speaking. She had missed the morning song of the sun, sung in ancient Taliska, if it even happened at all. When they had these meetings, she was not alone in noticing that these songs were not always sung. In all likelihood, with Haldad gone to teach Haleth, they were likely to hear them even less. Eoforhild felt she should be worried on this, for so often the songs were apart of their culture and their life, and yet in recent weeks, she found she had little love for them.

She was shocked, however, to hear that they would be leaving the camp area. This raised concern among the family leaders. There were some who did not agree, and many could not agree on where to go. The food was scarce, but who could say that it would be better south, and more importantly, among the passes? It was without argument that the mountains were too dangerous, but to traverse around through the fields would be costly, and many rivers they have come across were unseasonably frozen. They could easily cross, but if the ice were to break, it would spell disaster. All knew must leave, but none could agree on the path, and many were uncomfortable to leave both their winter priest and newly budding one. 

“We must,” Girion spoke amidst the argument. “We must for winter is not over. We must head south. There are refuges, where water is not ice, where the trees fruit, and there is plenty of prey. We must cross through the mountains. We must cross the great deserts. But they are there, protected by the mountains, where we will be safe.” 

It appeared to Eoforhild that he had gained years this morning. He was weary, yet Girion was their leader, and she trusted him. He was a practical man.

She would pack and determine what was not required. In truth, there was not much to carry. All of their life was in their tools, in their work. Her father had several beloved shuttles, and she had her own. All the same, she placed several aside. They would store a cache, and Girion had promised that they would mark it, return to it later. Yet she saw the look on his face. He did not expect to return. She wondered if he expected them to survive this trip. Most often, they would turn west, to where the horse-riders flourished, yet by now, they should have met stragglers and had found none. Often, they left caches of salt, oiled leather, flint, and other small wares. Anything they had to spare to aid the weary travelers. Yet all that they have found were empty, the caches split open or old and rotten. Perhaps, then, Girion was correct—the horse-riders have traveled elsewhere—to the south as well.

Eoforhild had packed most of their things—clothes rolled tightly to conserve space, most of their tools wrapped, and an emergency pack to mend along the road. At a moment's notice, they would dismantle the tent, and leave. She had made a pack of unnecessary things—fun, cute little trinkets: nut shells, beads, rocks, and bones. Their purpose more in sentiment than in survival. She wrestled with her dagger. Heden and Haleth were the fighters, and it did her little good, but she would need it. She tied its sheath to her waist, where throngs of leather draped—they had their practical use as much as decoration. She had strung some shells and beads along them, unwilling to part with all sentiment.

The last to consider was the small, plain box of her father's. 

They were weavers, and so it had come upon them to keep this in their line. Her father had never been claimed, nor had his parents, nor his sister. Eoforhild had not been claimed either. Quietly, she wondered if anyone would. She was unsure if there was a reason to continue keeping this small box safe. 

Her mother had insisted that they keep it, that she would be trained as her father had—to keep the memories, the songs and prayers alive. They would remember the Taliska. They would remember what the pieces were for, what the masks meant. They would not abandon Gwairilez, Vairë the Weaver. They would not forgo the sister-wife, the One of Many Eyes, the Shadow Queen. Her mother was not of the priest-line, of those to keep these traditions safe, but she believed it was an honor.

It was painful to remember her death. She had screamed in great agony. The clan had been traveling, but there was ice on the path, and she fell down in the crevice. Her body was broken. She screamed for aid, for mercy. They could find no way to her. Finally, Faenel, a thin, wiry young man who was deft in climbing eventually managed a path. He met with her and found her spine broken.

Her mother did not stop. She made no sense in her cries. At first, Eoforhild believed that she was crying for mercy from them, from her clan, but now she was not so sure. She begged that she would do anything just to make it stop.

Faenel, that poor man, was given the order. Her mother was too injured. There was no way to bring her back to the pass. She would not survive long with her body so broken. At the time, the clan was starving. They had not seen prey in days. They continued to survive off scraps of dried jerky, soaked leather, and whatever plant matter they could find. Eoforhild, so young at the time, would go to sleep counting her ribs by walking her fingers along them. _One, two three_ , she would think to herself, huddled and starving. At least none of them were thirsty. Water was always available, so long as there was heat to melt the snow. 

Her mother begged for it to end, then she would scream, unrelentingly. 

Faenel stabbed her with his dagger.

She made noises, then laughed and screamed. 

He stabbed her again, but her death was slow. She would not stop her noises, and Faenel, in a fit of terror, for he was still so young in so many ways, attacked her. He hit her, then choked her.

He did not take her death well. Eoforhild and her father did not hate him for it. He was not the one who sent her off the path, down the crevice. He had cried often—it did not matter who was around. One day, he told her that before he cut off her air supply, she muttered thanks in her pain-madness. It haunted him. 

Then one day, Faenel wasn't there. He had left them. They had yet to see him again, although the hunters claimed that they had found his clothing and pack. She often wondered how long he survived, nude in the snow. Was it quick? Did he simply fall asleep? Grow delirious and bury himself, believing the snow to be the warm blanket? 

It often saddened her. She had liked Faenel, even to the point of childish fantasies. She had wanted to kiss him, but she knew that after he had killed her mother, that was all he could think of. She had forgiven him, but her thoughts had not mattered. These days, she did not have these sorts of fantasies. 

She decided she would keep the box. She had no need to continue memorizing the songs. That was what her mother wanted, but she liked the box and what it contained. It puzzled her. It would be heavy and useless; she could always toss it aside if she needed. 

Before she packed it away, she took out a necklace. It had always fascinated her. Its beads were made of bone, metal, wood, and glass, and all were in the shape of eyes. Gwairilez was the Spider. It had been some time since Eoforhild has seen spiders. She only truly knew of them from her father's stories and of the carvings from the box. They terrified her and yet fascinated her. She hated that Gwairilez did not choose her, for then she and Haleth could be priest-sisters. She of the Winter and Eoforhild of the Weaver. 

She would keep the necklace around her, if not for anything more than spite. The land had killed her mother. Mbelekhuruz was the one who drew her down into that crevice, like he had killed so many others, and no matter the love and devotion her family had given to the Weaver, she had never granted them her love and protection back. It was her necklace now. A trade for keeping the box safe. It was what she was owed.


	15. Ulfang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ulfang is one of the race of Men, the Atani, and is one of the Khand. He lives in the South, in an oasis, among many tribes of Atani. He is an outlooker, a guard to the gates of the oasis, and they are all brothers--no matter what sex or gender they are. 
> 
> He bears the markings of Ufda, a Maia of Hyenas, and is one of the Khandhâkkâ, one of the tribes of Khand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai 
> 
> Ainur = Ayanuz  
> Vala = Bala  
> Maiar = Animôim (A)
> 
> __________
> 
> Ufda = Maia of Hyenas
> 
> Khandhâkkâ = one of the tribes of Khand*  
> Variag = one of the tribes of Khand*  
> Drimmôr = one of the tribes of Harad*
> 
> *Khand, Harad, and the Eastern Men (Easterlings) are not the same places/people. Even among each place, there are many languages and peoples.

The horns called and his brothers rushed past him, spears in hand. He could hear the chirp-calls of the other outlookers and one blew the horns again. Wildmen, it seemed, had approached the gates. The wood creaked around them, and Ulfang enjoyed the light breeze. He stood, taking his black spear in hand, and followed his brothers.

Like them, he was dusted with the reddish clay, which served to protect against the harsh sun and his hair was braided back. All had painted markings. His was spotted, resembling the hyena woman, Ufda, of who still walked the lands. Two of his brothers were painted like hawks, and the other of a gazelle. They did not speak with all of the spirits, but that did not stop them from being represented. He was shorter than his brothers, but all were lithe and muscular. Fat was not an easy commodity to come by. 

Ahead, they had stopped by the rampart, built into the old, worn trees of the jungle. The brothers were at the front of the refuge, and beyond the rock that served as gates was a vast wasteland. There were hints to the grassland that once flourished, but it was now wide and barren. _A desert held life_ , Ulfang had been told, _but nothing thrived in the void._ There were thick dust clouds that prevented him from seeing to the horizon. Always, the dust rose and created thick walls in the barren lands.

The Wildmen were true to their word, for to survive the trek from whatever lands lay beyond to their shelter, one must truly be bestial. Yet the secondborn stood before the gates now, confused by the horns. They straggled, clearly delighted by the oasis they had found, but confused as to how to enter. One wavered, cautious and afraid. 

The horns blew again, from the right, where another group of watchers stood. They were the ones who had spotted the Wildmen. To the far left, among the rock, some of the other brothers shot their black arrows, a warning shot not meant to maim nor kill, yet one of the bowmen had failed in his aim, and one of the Wildmen shouted in surprise and pain. The arrow had struck their leg. Ulfang could hear the laughter from the brothers on the left. 

He turned to his brothers, the hawks and gazelle. Who would approach? Who would call to the Wildmen? 

The outlookers from the right called and one made howls of a jackal. They laughed with amusement.

Uthong, who was one of the hawk-brothers, called out to the Wildmen, “This is not your place! Come no further or we will kill you.” The injured Wildman wailed in pain and one of the others knelt before him and licked at the blood. _Blood is water of the void_ , Ulfang had been told. _Conserve all that you can, give only what you can spare, they had said._

He had given blood rarely. Some to Ufda, the spirit of hyenas. Animôim were most common to connect with, but some had disappeared ages ago, during the War of the Heavens, when the Sky and Land fought, when the Lightning and Thunder came and almost destroyed the world. That was when the Land bowed and allowed itself to be bound by the Smith. That was when the Winter came, Ulfang was told, and the world was cast in darkness, for the Fire of the Land was cast into the Void, and the world must maintain a balance of ice and fire.

But they did not bow to the Winter. They lived here, in the oasis of the void, where the jungle flourished. 

The Wildmen called to the outlookers, and the brothers to the left fired more arrows in warning. It was better that they left, died in the vast wasteland, than for them to have to dispose of the bodies. Lakka, the brother marked as a gazelle, scratched his sagging breasts. He did not have a penis like Uthong or Bo'd, the other hawk-brother. He had a vagina and was considering being a birth-father. He said, “I do not think they understand.”

Bo'd laughed, a harsh clacking sound, which resembled some of the large mouthed birds in the canopy. He was not from Ulfang's tribe but from the Variag. Lakka was from another entirely, the Drimmôr. Uthong was from Ulfang's as well, the Khandhâkkâ but all tribes guarded the borders. “They ever understand?” Bo'd said. “Never. We will kill them.”

Lakka nodded. He was not wrong. They often killed the Wildmen. She eyed the refugees over, wondering if any had meat on them. 

Uthong blew his horn, a call to the other outlookers. There was no reason to shout across the natural gate, and so they used horn calls as a form of communication. The others called back. _So they would kill them._

The Wildmen below were of three minds, it seemed to Ulfang. The injured and the one drinking the blood from his injury did nothing; they saw no danger and they were killed easily. Several realized that they were unwelcome, and so they shouted and desperation and fear to the outlookers. Only when the killing started, did they scramble to run. 

But it was the third mind that surprised him—there was the one Wildman, the one who was hesitant and cautious from before. He did not flee, nor did he shout. He eyed the outlookers with a clarity that disturbed Ulfang. Usually they were maddened by thirst and hunger and heat-madness. This Wildman saw them and Ulfang had the unsettled feeling that he understood far too much. 

In a fit of nervousness, Ulfang threw his spear, slaying him. He would have to retrieve it, but then they would all pick among the dead. Lakka slapped his arm in both surprise and irritation. 

They climbed down the rock gate, taking the hidden paths. Even so, sometimes a brother fell. The land was not an easy one, even within the oasis, and then they were on the dusty, broken soil. The oasis tribes had no use for the void-lands, the barren, dying waste that surrounded them. There was a deep fear in Ulfang's heart that one day, the void-lands would encroach on the oasis. What would happen then, he did not know. Where else is there to go?

The brothers picked through the dead Wildmen, taking back the arrows. There was little of interest this time. Trinkets were rare, but there was no urgency in life. Loot the dead, then dispose of them. 

Ulfang approached the one he had killed. The Wildman looked small and decrepit now. He felt a flush of shame in his fear. They were starved, mad creatures. What they did was a service. The oasis could not hold the refugees and nor was it worth it. They did not speak their languages, they did not understand the oasis. They were not born and gifted it.

He pulled his spear free, then crouched to loot his kill.

The body before him shuttered and twitched; there was the sound of tendons snapping unnaturally and the Wildman's eyes opened. They were black, with no sclera white, and black oil oozed from his eyes and nose. He opened his mouth and the world around them grew cold. The body rose and was no longer bound by human movement. The other dead began to rise, and the outlookers shouted in surprise and alarm. The dead should remain dead. 

From the mouth of Ulfang's kill came a voice. It was harsh and grating, the sound of rock against rock, the deep thunder of the continents shifting, and with a power behind it that forced him into tears for the terror this being could bring.

 _CHILDREN OF THE OASIS._

It spoke, then vomited slick, thick oil, which splattered on the ground, glittering, belying a rainbow of colors. Ulfang shivered, both of cold and existential misery. What spoke to them was furious and full of vitriol. It was not simple hate of them, of his being, but the hatred of all things, pure and wild. It was hatred born of love, a love that was never answered. 

The dead twitched violently and its spine snapped, so it stood strangely. 

_YOUR AGE IS AT AN END. IT WILL BELONG TO THE LORD OF ALL._

_CHILDREN OF THE SPRING, THE WINTER HAS COME._

The body moaned, gasses within released. The form moved, attempting to right itself properly. Crude oil oozed from its spear-wound. It stepped towards Ulfang.

_SON OF UFDA, ALLOW HER TO ENTER YOU. ALLOW HER TO RIDE YOU._

The other dead Wildmen twitched as briefly the being that spoke lost its control.

_YOU WILL BE NO MORE. A SACRIFICE TO THE BEAUTIFUL._

He was rooted through fear. He felt the urge to obey this being, and fleetingly, he saw the grace in the creature before him—despite that its eye had pushed out of socket to give way to the flow of the crude oil, despite that its spine had snapped and that it wavered sickeningly. There was an allure, a sort of magic woven into this destruction, this puppetry. Its belly had distended, as if there was a spring within the body and the oil did not stop its flow, unconcerned that the skin had its limits to what it could contain and therefore the puppet's belly threatened to burst. From the spear-wound, organ matter pushed outward. It had started small, but now its entrails eagerly squirmed out, spilling onto the land. Ulfang felt the bile rise within him, and madness threatened tear his mind apart, unable to comprehend the revolting image with the love and beauty he felt rise in his breast, a fire that made him weep. 

The creature reached for him.

_ALLOW HER, MY ANIMÔIM, YOU WHO BEAR HER MARKS. ALLOW HER, MY CHILD, FOR WHOM I LOVE AND HATE._


	16. Almarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Almarian's story.
> 
> She is of the Race of Men. Her husband is Meneldur and she is pregnant with his child. She has become trapped within her mind and has access to the Void. A dark creature grows within her. She injured her hand and awoke something residing within the Void. They reside in the West.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Ainur = Ayanuz  
> Vala = Bala  
> Maiar = Animôim (A)
> 
> __________
> 
> Ufda = Maia of Hyenas
> 
> Khandhâkkâ = one of the tribes of Khand*  
> Variag = one of the tribes of Khand*  
> Drimmôr = one of the tribes of Harad*
> 
> *Khand, Harad, and the Eastern Men (Easterlings) are not the same places/people. Even among each place, there are many languages and peoples.

The being before her was black with char. It's form was skeletal and inhuman. It had too many limbs and too many sharp angles. It stood high above her, its skin a hardened carapace. This was a creature of malice, its organic form mummified and metal armor soldered into its very flesh. It creaked and there was the sound of metallic screeching. It stretched its many arms out; its face was masked. 

Almarian feared it. Her first thought was of predation and of heat. Fire radiated from its chest, where its metallic carapace fractured, allowing light to pass through. In the great darkness this was blinding. Until now, Almarian did not realize how cold she was. She did not realize how much she had missed light— _true_ light. In this single, most terrifying moment, she realized that all her life she had been held in great darkness.

It spoke to her, its voice grating, weary, and unbearable. It leaned over her, chittering to itself, exploring her. It did not speak in words she could understand.

She whimpered in despair and pain. Her hand felt strange and empty, as if it was only a memory. What was left of it, she did not know. The world was too oppressively hot, and under the oppression of this being of raw, unfinished creature of metal, she felt she could not breath. 

Hoarsely, it spoke, it's words ill-formed in disuse.

_CHILD OF CREATION. COME TO US; COME TO ME._

From its form, substance dripped from between the cracks in its poorly formed metal carapace. It fell from the being, like blood, and hit her flesh. It burned and she cried out in surprise and agony.

The being above her made a scraping noise and she realized this was laughter.

_SHE HAS TAKEN YOU, OH CHILD THAT FOLLOWS. THERE IS ONLY MOURNING FOR YOU._

In a soft voice, Almarian said, “What of my child?” She had feared her death, but what terrified her more, now, was what grew inside her. _Would her husband be safe from it?_ She could not help that it was inside her now; she was fated for the horrors it would bring, but what of her family, her town?

The being made a low noise—it pondered, darkly amused. 

_FOOD. DELICIOUS LIGHT. ALL CHILDREN ARE._

The desire for flight flooded Almarian's senses. She acted to move, but the being grabbed her with one of its metallic, clawed hands. It seared her flesh.

Then she heard the chittering and the wet, slippery movement of the Dark Being—that which had hunted her, that which grew within her, and the being of metal and fire released her.

It turned to face the Dark Being, that which was here, in the vast darkness that was beyond all darkness, and that which was incubating within her body, and it screeched in vicious anger.

The Dark Being did not relent and the two met, fighting, the rust-reeking dust swirling upward as it was disturbed by their combat. Far in the distance Almarian she heard more cries. What they were, she did not know, but nothing here was safe. It was a vast greatness of predators and she was the weakest one; she was the prey. 

_She was not a priest. She would not be called to serve the Bala, but despite this, she loved the Mourning One, simply and without doubt. She was the Winter, and as dangerous and deadly as the cold could be, she loved the sight of snow, the peace and silence it brought._ Total winter would be the death of all, but what a beautiful end, _she thought._

_It was winter when her mother died. She had been ill for some time and no medicines had helped. Calling upon the Healer did nothing. What stole her health could not be assuaged. She was at her end and her family knew it. She coughed incessantly, then cried at the pain it caused. Her body ached with bed sores and she heaved and gasped for breath, drowning with air. Almarian shivered at that possibility and had thoughts of her mother turning into a fish._

_She did not love her mother in the way that she felt she should. She was a harsh person and a cruel taskmaster. And yet for it, Almarian understood. They survived well despite what they had. The hearth was clean, the larder never full, but neither empty, either. She knew well of herbs, and yet none of that could save her mother now._

_They called for the priest._

The being of metal and fire screamed and there was a blast of oppressive hot, then the sound of substance splattering into the powder around them. As Almarian scrambled to get away from the two giants fighting, she cut herself on the metal ruins around them. She took little care, fearing to be crushed or killed. She feared drowning within the rust powder, unsure of how deep the dry lake ran. 

Light broke through the wound of the fire-being, and briefly, Almarian was blinded, and in the second-long image, she could see the world around them. She screamed in terror. Her eyes burned and her face was wet with tears. 

_The priest arrived at twilight. There were no stars that night and the moon hid behind clouds, or so Almarian had thought at the time. She now wonders if the night had purposefully hidden it, obscured it for the presence of the priest. Ever since, she had feared the priests of Fuiheskilez just as much as she loved the Bala._

_The priest entered their town, shrouded in grey. It walked with silence and did not speak. Almarian had waited outside for the priest, curious and excited in a dark sort of way. The arrival meant her mother's death, yet this held her interest. Little often did they have visitors of priests; little often did they head into the mountain hills to visit the temple._

_The priest scared her for its stillness. It radiated chill, even in the cool dusk. Even when it moved, it appeared as if it did not at all. She had greeted it but received no response._

_It entered their home and greeted her older brother with a short, almost imperceptible bow. Stone-faced, he ordered their siblings away. Their neighbor would take them in for the night. Almarian was loath to leave and so hid outside. The unusual darkness made this easy. Her brother soon left their house as well, leaving their mother alone with the priest of Fuiheskilez._

Light burst through the cracks in the carapace, as if the mummified form of the being caught spark, and so it was a form, great and terrible. It's body was too long to be Atani, and too many limbs to be any one of the Children. It's hands ended in great, tortured claws, as if in attempt to become more deadly, the being had pierced its fingertips with shards of metal. If it was deadly in the dark, it was even worse now—afire, metal-clad and not an inch of it was welcoming.

It opened its great maw, and for a moment, as the mask shifted away, Almarian saw that this being once had a face—a face that one would see upon the Atani, or even the Elves, a face that could have been beautiful once—but that was now no longer the case. It's skull was reformed and its metal carapace had fused into bone. It no longer had eyes, which now shone fiercely with the flame at its core. It was all teeth and horn, its jaw unhinging unnaturally wide. 

It bit down onto the Dark Being, piercing its body. The Dark Being screeched and to Almarian, she had the impression of something young—a child. It was nothing more than the infant of something far, far greater. 

_She moved, seeking to sneak a look at the ritual of the priest, but the door to their house opened and there stood the priest itself. It turned its form to her, then beckoned her in. It spoke to her, but she did not understand its words._

_She followed._

_Her mother was coughing and weeping with the pain that it brought. The priest closed the door to their home and with sudden fear, Almarian realized that there was no exiting, no entering once the ritual had began. She stood awkwardly, watching._

_The priest took away her mother's covers. She protested but could do nothing in her sick weakness. She cried with the chill, but the priest took no mind to this. It discarded the blankets in a corner. It spoke to her mother in its language that Almarian could not understand. It was enchanting and she wished to obey it. It spoke again in its lyrical way. Her mother began to move, slowly taking off her clothes. Almarian felt a strange weight against her mind, as if she could no longer think clearly. It was a welcoming weight, like a blanket, signifying she no longer needed to have a care in the world._

_The priest continued to speak. Almarian shivered lightly, reveling in its awe-inspiring beautiful._

_Her mother, naked, lay on the bed. She breathed with difficulty. Her body was covered in wounds._

_The priest brought out an ornate bowl with silver-filigree against its initial black form from its satchel. It held the bowl out to Almarian's mother, who took it, trembling with effort. She had a glazed look on her face. Almarian's distant thoughts noted that she could not help herself; the priest gave orders and she obeyed. She realized she would do the same if the priest turned its attention to her._

_The priest lowered its veil. Beneath, its skin was pale, but beneath that, there was a darker shade. Its face was rigid, lips peeled back in an expressionless grimace. All of its teeth could be seen. Its nose and forehead were blackened as if by frostbite and the skin around its eyes was an unnatural reddish-yellow. Its hair was a soft golden color, falling about its shoulders._

_Deep within her mind, she reeled with horror. This was no living being._

_The priest sung and around its form, Almarian saw the soft glow of the life that was bound to the frost-killed body. It moved incongruous with the rigid physical form and this is what spoke in such a haunting way. The body never moved, and as the priest took off its shroud, she could see how it remained in death rictus. It was the ghostly form that moved._

_Almarian, in all her revulsion and fear, was astounded by the ghostly form. She was beautiful—an elf, graceful and captivating even in death._

_The ghost form of the priest continued to sing and the candle flame on the bedside table withered. She brought her ethereal hands up to her mouth and with a terrible cracking sound, wrenched the dead mouth of her body open. Within the depths of the body up came something black and viscous, snaking its way out and into the bowl that Almarian's mother held, whose face was wrenched in horror, but was unable to move away._

_The ghost form brought forward a knife from her hip. It was in similar make to the bowl—an antique masterpiece. It sung and Almarian felt compelled to stand by the bed, at the priest's side._

_Her mind screamed to run and yet the song was too alluring. She had to obey._

_The priest handed her the knife and she stood, ready for all and any orders. The black liquid within the bowl continued to move._

_The priest made a series of gestures, drawing out a silver substance from her mother's mouth, as if she was creating a tapestry of the soul. She continued her dirge. Almarian's mother shook, yet remained holding the bowl. She made a gurgling noise, choking, and her eyes rolled back. She pissed herself, yet the elf priest continued to draw out the silver substance, and her mother continued to shake, unable to do anything else but die._

_The darkness within the bowl grew agitated and the elf priest guided the silver substance into it. Almarian shook with horror, clinging to the knife. It consumed the soul of her mother._

_There was the last choking sounds as her mother died and the substance stopped flowing. Almarian watched the darkness within the bowl consume it all greedily._

_Without understanding why, Almarian grabbed the blade of the knife and slide it across her flesh. She cried in pain, but the priest's elvish song continued and she had no choice in her actions. Blood pooled in her palm, growing dark in its thickness. She shook as she held her arm out and over the bowl, which remained in her mother's dead hands._

_The darkness within the bowl consumed this as well._

The Dark Being screamed as the being of fire and metal tore into it. Almarian felt a dull, insistent pain, as if her body, far away and long forgotten, was in agony. She clung in fear to the ruins around her as the Dark Being fled, weakened and wounded, into the vastness beyond.

The being of fire and metal screeched at its fleeing form. Almarian shook, the air growing more oppressive as the being turned its attention to her. She looked up at it, that which was metal-clad, twisted, tortured, and ablaze. A predator that had protected her and this gave it a sort of admirable charm. Even in its moment of triumph, she realized that it stood wounded, blood still flowing from its damage, and that despite its flame, it was weak.

“Who are you?” she asked and in its wretched voice, it answered.

_THE ABHORRED._


	17. Haleth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haleth is one of the race of Men. She is the daughter of Fanuilos and Girion. Her uncle is Haldad and a priest of Fuiheskilez. Her younger cousin is Eoforhild. They reside in the North.
> 
> She has been taken into priesthood by her uncle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Ainur = Ayanuz  
> Vala = Bala  
> Maiar = Animôim (A)
> 
> __________
> 
> Ufda = Maia of Hyenas
> 
> Khandhâkkâ = one of the tribes of Khand*  
> Variag = one of the tribes of Khand*  
> Drimmôr = one of the tribes of Harad*
> 
> *Khand, Harad, and the Eastern Men (Easterlings) are not the same places/people. Even among each place, there are many languages and peoples.

Haleth had a choice, and in this choice, there was no reversal. She could not obey the Winter One. She could not accept the ice chill that surrounded her now, nor accept the death it wished to give her. She could not let it seep into her deepest thoughts and play her like a puppet. She mourned, now, for her uncle, and to a lesser degree, the priest who taught her now. She could not die their death. 

She would die; she was dying now. She did not have the food, water, nor shelter to maintain her body. There were times when she seized and when she woke, she felt a husk of herself. The more this happened, the more she struggled with the disorientation. And yet, there were times when the pain eased away, when she could no longer feel her body and all its needs. These were times of euphoria. She could not move, but she felt peace. She would die and she would not go to Fuiheskilez.

 _She was fire, burning to live, burning to illuminate, and burning to destroy. She was weak and struggling, but in every fiber of her being was the urge to flourish. Her heart was burning._

_And so she died._

Her body lay still, her hands blackened, her legs and face mottled with necrotic tissue. She was blue and black and desiccated. It had been over a week, and still, they left her body in her ice prison.

 _Deep below the soil, deeper than the bedrock, and ever deeper still, there was a river. It had stopped now in its flow, for the furnaces that had fed it died long ago. It had sludged along, ever growing more and more solid. It was as river not of life-feeding water, nor the toxic poison of caverns, but of metal and rock made fluid. It was the gift of a different sort of life—creation. This was in the realm of the Maker, and he had long stilled his hammer and bellows, for there was no work when there was no heat. No matter his efforts, he could not keep his forges alive, and so he sat now, still as the master-crafted throne he rested on. It was a thick, sturdy thing, made of metals twisted about, adorned with the low-glinting gems of his Children, for they made and gave him such gifts in tribute for their lives, and in love, as a father keeps his children's first efforts, he kept these about him. They were chipped, flawed, and yet all the more dear to him for it._

_No sound echoed in his Halls, and all sat still now, for the world was cold. Tools of their craft lay about, their work unfinished, and the air was stagnant. Dust lay in great blankets for without activity, the charcoal and rust ever present in the forge air had drifted downward to rest. The smiths of the Forge-halls did not move, and it was as if all life had fled their metal forms. Dust settled on them, their forms no longer humming with their inner workings. They had stopped in all manners of ways—some stood, as if to continue their work, yet they stood quiet and vacant, and some sat in rest._

_The Maker sat, as if in despairing thought, as if any moment he could stand, yet his clothing tattered and was worn thin. It was brittle and stiff. The roots of the Great Trees above, adorned with gems of light, hung dried and dead, their illumination gone._

_Haleth, having fled her spent body, saw this now, and at once was aware of the many Halls across the lands. She knew, fleetingly, of the halls in the deepest trenches of the ocean, of the halls of gardens, and even more quietly, knowledge whispered of the halls of air. These were all the land, a greater whole than the simple soil and rock, and there had never been any true barrier between ocean and soil and sky. Yet she could not focus on this, for they did not call to her; it was the rock, soil, and minerals that demanded of her attention. This was the loudest voice, the greatest song, and she found herself struggling against it, threatening to drown in music._

_The Maker was but a fragment of the land, and the Plant-Giver was the compliment—life of two minds, one of creativity and one of seed. Yet here, in the Halls of the Great Smith, the Forges were cold, the air quiet of work, and all life, even the smallest of plants, was dead. This Haleth saw immediately, and as a being of the land, she felt the true absence: the heart was gone, fled beyond a wall unbreachable. The void that this created had cooled the lava flows and the fires lost their spirit. Without heat for the coals, for steam, the Forge-halls stopped, and all those who had bound themselves to the craft-task lost their heart, for in the very nature of their spirit, they were the Forges._

_As part of the land, Haleth understood what it knew, and she saw that none had expected their voice to be taken away, for if the song was lost, then so too was their voice. This was the very nature of the Ayanuz—each individual had sung themselves into their work. The First One did this readily, eagerly, and she felt his chilling love of the Land, and so, as he sung, he and the Land became one._

The body of Haleth twisted under the unseen hands of the Mourning One; it cracked and snapped, refusing to be bent to her will. Water dripped from above and froze quickly in the unnaturally chill air, and yet this ice melted easily upon touching the dead, frozen flesh. Ice would not command the body of Haleth. 

_There were more song—of the Sky, of the Water, but these did not concern her now. What ached in her consciousness was the Song of Creating. The First One knew its song well, and through the land, she felt him, felt his song, and it filled her with great eagerness and fire. But his song was more than one part, it was multi-fold, many voices from one throat, and it was painful to consider. She groped to be grounded, otherwise she would lose herself in the song, and she did not wish to do this yet. She wished to remain herself. She was angry that she had died; she was angry with the Winter._

Heat rose in her breast; she was focus and retribution. The body did not understand this, nor did the magics that played upon her. She was to be taken in to be the a priest of the Grey Shroud, of the Lady of Mourning and Queen of Shadow. She was meant to be sworn and gifted to Fuiheskilez. Yet even so, the Darkness could not creep forward and take her body for its own; it could not bind her soul to her body as it was meant to. Haleth rebuffed the song of death, mourning, and shadow. She was fire, precision, and anger. The body of Haleth was meant for ice, snow, and necrosis. 

She had a choice, but that had passed now.

 _A wolf dug in the snow, seeking the smells of decay. The snows had ravaged the pack and he traveled alone now. The meat below was too long rotten, but it was meat. It would fill his stomach as much as it could kill him. And so, he dug, breaking through the barrier of snow and ice, to the meat cache below._

_He was flecked with dark grey and reddish browns with a white belly, and yet for a wolf, he was massive. His form was more rangy than a common wolf—longer in leg and muzzle. To a human, he would stand eye to their chest, and yet he had the softness of youth in his coat and features._

She could no longer service the oppression of snow and death; she felt a piece within herself, that note of flame, which was a fuel that lived within all life. This is what had fed the Halls of the Smith, what had driven the heart of the Land; it was what aided the Ocean and drove air flow of the Skies. She felt the loss of the Voice of Flame; this was the Ayanuz who had song with a driving force, with order and function—the Ayanuz whose name had been erased and silenced. She felt the barrier at the greatest outer reaches, where the Walls stood, where a Door rested, shut and locked. The Voice was beyond, dangerously quiet now, and broken. 

The Land could not break this barrier, bound and broken as he was.

Yet she could still hear the Voice beyond; its efforts well-spent and tortured.

 _The wolf reached his meal; the broken, frozen body of Haleth, the failed priestess, abandoned by the Winter. He ate, then, on what he could, and worried at the hardened flesh and snapped at the bone, seeking marrow._

Haleth knew she had lost; she did not have a body now, and yet she could not abandon herself. She was furious—at the Land, at the Skies, at the Smith, at the Fire. She was livid with the Winter and what was held beyond the Door. She hated in that instance her uncle and her father, even as she could feel their lives now—full of pain and misery. She felt injustice that she could not live a simple life, that it was filled with hunger and struggle.

 _The great wolf stood, stilled as a shadow passed over him and the wreckage of the Mannish body that was once Haleth. He growled and turned to the trespasser, hackles raising in fear and defense of his paltry meal._

_He sniffed, determining the odd smells of this trespasser. It was no Man, and its smells were weak, so it was almost scentless, just as its footsteps were nearly soundless. It watched the wolf dispassionately._

“I heard you through the song,” _it said, and the wolf understood its speech, just as Haleth could hear and understand him, spirit as she was._

She had wandered so far from her body; there had been no need to stay in that field, and yet she felt called back to it by this stranger. It knew of her, and it knew she could hear; she was everywhere—she waited in the cold spots where the Flame had sung. And so, she found herself drawn back to where she had died, to where this great wolf had torn apart her blackened, frozen body. She had no hatred for this wolf; like her, it needed to survive. It knew of order, of function. It knew not to waste meat. But this stranger unnerved her; she recognized that it was not Atani. 

She watched the being, taking no fear of the great wolf, for the dead had no fear of harm. She tried to will herself in one spot, but the song of the Flame was so alluring, and at times, she found herself meandering in spirit. 

“Listen now,” the figure spoke, “ _Flame-servant,_ you are called. _Kuluguinir._ ” He looked to the great wolf. “You are the last of your kind, wolf. Your kin have not been used in centuries, for your Master is gone. Yet, it is time now; we require your service.”

_The wolf moved to flee now, realizing a danger it could not conceive of, and yet a song erupted from the trespasser that bound him with great force. The wolf cried and Haleth cried with him, for fear and the pain that the song-magic brought. It severed her from her wanderings and she felt trapped, caged in this moment._

The figure held out his hands, burned as they were, wretched and smoking. He grasped both the great wolf and the ghost-form of Haleth in an iron grip and then they were one.


	18. Maglor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor is the last son of Fëanor and the last alive who swore the Oath. He has held the Silmarils and burned for he was cursed. He has since wandered Arda, alone, and witness to the rise of Fuiheskilez's power.
> 
> He found Haleth and bound her within the body of the last Wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Ainur = Ayanuz  
> Vala = Bala  
> Maiar = Animôim (A)
> 
> __________
> 
> Ufda = Maia of Hyenas
> 
> Khandhâkkâ = one of the tribes of Khand*  
> Variag = one of the tribes of Khand*  
> Drimmôr = one of the tribes of Harad*
> 
> *Khand, Harad, and the Eastern Men (Easterlings) are not the same places/people. Even among each place, there are many languages and peoples.

He waited for them—for the Aftercomer and the Wolf to become the abomination that was so necessary. His hands burned; they would always burn. He sat against a rock and closed his eyes, the song that lay under to world could not be ignored. Once he had opened himself to it, he could not stop and so he lived in grief and despair. He could hear the magic that was not meant for the Children, of the shame and anger that drove within it so strongly. He could feel the pain in desire to create, yet to be given restraint and denial. 

He breathed in deep, taking in the crisp winter air, sharp in his lungs. He did not serve the Winter; he did not serve any Ainur. He served the Oath, and that he had failed. He was to be given to the darkness, just as he had sworn. He breathed slower, and the song did not fade. It would not until the darkness won or until the Creator ended it, for only they had the power to do so. Yet, he could quiet his mind and focus away from that which was not meant for any Child. 

The creature before him took in a breath; the abomination was succeeding. He frowned at it; it could not notice him. It was not conscious, just alive. This was not his first action in serving the Enemy; his hands burned perpetually with reminder that he was no longer of the light. He could no longer bear the gifts of the Creator and the Ainur. He could no longer withstand the blessings of the Two Trees, nor the gifts of his father. Yet, this was a new form of betrayal. This was action; this was purposeful. He knew what he made, what villain he produced into the world, and he knew that this was the first of many steps to loosening the chains of he who he hated most of all. 

It was no longer a wolf; it was a werewolf. It would grow, for even the Wolf itself was young, as was the _fëar_ of the Aftercomer. She may have died briefly, yet she was bound to the Fire through the Land itself, and so she could not yet leave. She was cursed and he pitied and loathed her for it. 

He waited, ignoring all that he heard, for there was no enemy greater than the one he aided now; there was no greater sin he had committed than the betrayal of his Oath. Whatever predator that came now would find him well prepared and without care to lose. 

. . . 

She awoke, this abomination to the Creator, to all of Arda, and he had food for her—a carcass of deer, so preciously found and given. Food was too scarce to waste, and so she consumed all that she could. He ate the rest. There was no wood for fire, and even so, the life of fire was too weak now. It would not cook meat as it did in the past. He had done worse than eat the raw meat of a deer. 

It took her time to grow used to her lupine body. He could not aid her. He had always concerned himself with the slaying of werewolves, not the care of them. She gained the ability to walk and leap before she learned to speak yet again. Her voice was low and rough; it was not so easy to understand her, for the maw of a great wolf was not accustomed to the graces of the Children's speech. The Wolf had known the words, for while he was young, he had been of the ancient bloodline. He was meant for this, not for the simple life of a common canid or warg. Even so, he had given the Aftercomer trouble. He had hoped for many years before he disappeared into her mind. 

She spoke to the creature now, her mind scattered across her life, her death, and the life of the Wolf. She remembered his mother, suckling at her teat with his siblings, and she remembered their death—hunted for meat and pelts, starved for the lack of food, and frozen for the lack of shelter. She, too, remembered her own mother; she remembered the cold and hunger. The two bonded over this. 

He could hear their songs and hear how separate they had been and how their songs wove together tighter and tighter. He knew it beautiful—the connection of two lives—and yet he knew it too to be revolting, for this was not a natural friendship. This was a relation build on necessity; they had been forced together through pain and death. He had taken their song and wove it anew. They were simply notes to the greatest song; they were but cells to the hunt. 

It was difficult for him to remain awake. Hearing the song called him away from his own mind. They would walk across the tundra, ever heading North. He did not tell the werewolf where he headed; she did not question their destination. She followed her master, as loathe as he was to consider himself as such. For now, for while the Land was bound and for while the Fire was gone, he was the closest master that she had. And as he walked, he forgot himself; his feet would fall in autonomy, following what was required, yet his mind traveled far and too often he saw the Land in his dreams.

He regretted his life; he regretted that all he knew had died. He had known his brother to die. He had been there, in music, as they cast their heirlooms away. He had felt the chords of his brother end, and then he was alone.

He had traveled long and far, avoiding life when he could, and too often he found himself lost in his footsteps, having slept in his journey. His feet would bleed, just as they were prone to now. Restless, he was, for there was nothing for an oathbreaker. He knew no peace in dreams, for what did he have left to desire? He swore with his father and brothers; he broke it with his brother, and now he was alone and lived for nothing.

He saw the music now, across the vast snowlands. He and the tireless werewolf had entered beyond the mountains her people so often feared. They had traveled across the tundra, and now there was nothing—a desert of ice and snow, where no life flourished. They had far more to travel. He survived off his pack—the elf-magics had weakened and the travel foods that were once so replenishing tasted dry and provided little, and so he drew from the Land. He fed in the pain and the hatred. It was an easy task, for all the world he had seen, he knew its time was ending, and this gave rise to his purpose. 

To survive of spite and anger was to come at a cost. He could hear the Land's song, and with it, the Enemy's. The pain of his burned hands only grew greater. They aided in his fuel—pain to bring pain, anger to anger, and spite to spite, it all was food for their journey. 

He lost his sight time to time. Shadows and ghosts rose from the fields of snow—those Eldar he had known and loved called to him, welcoming him to their embrace. Many far in the distance watched, immaterial, and sang for him. Welcome to the Hall, they called; sit and rest, they cried. There was always an end, they sung to him. There was always the welcome death. He had no need of this journey North; no need for the pain that so ate at his _fëar_. He would consume himself in his efforts, they keened. 

He did not see his brothers nor his father; they were not free and they remained bound and doomed within the Halls of Judgment. Just as the Enemy was bound, his family was unpardoned. They would remain so until the end of all ends, as such was their curse. 

He ignored those who keened and sung and mourned. They were still in the realm of Winter, beyond the continents where the Children once thrived. He and the werewolf walked along the Helcaraxë, and neither of them made a sound but of the snow and ice crunching beneath their feet.

The air was frozen and it pained him, but nothing gave him a greater chill than the keening that came forth. This was a song, he knew, and it shook him, he who had faced the great hordes of the Enemy, for he had heard the tales of the Helcaraxë and the dangers it possessed. He stopped when he heard that song—at first he could not tell its direction, and then he felt the movement beneath his feet. All around them the snow and ice moved; he was not on a continent for there was no song of the soil and rock below. The ice sung—keening and ethereal—and its meaning he could not tell; these were the voices not of the Ainur, but of the mating of the Enemy and the Void. The werewolf huddled into herself.

Neither of them made a sound.

The ice continued to shift and sing. He tried to not think of the depth of where they stood, of what rested below the ice. It was so much darker here, where the lights of the sun and moon could not reach, even upon the times before the Winter One reigned. Instead, there were flashes of sky—greens and blues and purples.

He was losing his way. They had walked only to find their tracks; they had walked and only found ancient bones and carriages of the Eldar who once traversed here. They had found many other things—bones of balrog and Orc, of greater beasts long passed before even the Eldar awoke. They found everything but the way they needed, and all the while, the ice shifted beneath them and sung of hunger and malice.


	19. Ayanuz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the story of the Ayanuz [Ainur] and the aftermath of their decision to banish Mairai [Mairon] through the Door of Night, and into the Void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Ainur = Ayanuz  
> Vala = Bala  
> Maiar = Animôim (A)
> 
> __________
> 
> Ufda = Maia of Hyenas
> 
> Khandhâkkâ = one of the tribes of Khand*  
> Variag = one of the tribes of Khand*  
> Drimmôr = one of the tribes of Harad*
> 
> *Khand, Harad, and the Eastern Men (Easterlings) are not the same places/people. Even among each place, there are many languages and peoples.

The Land is not at rest, even as it is bound and chained, forced against motion. It has slept, and yet its slumber was not rest, but a retreat. Sleep is not benign; it is not inaction, and for this fact, the Land has been active. 

To dream is not a simple affair. To dream is to desire, to draw forth the wildness of the mind, and the Land is not a calm existence. It dreams of a wilderness, where it rises and falls at easy whim. It desires change and stagnation. The Land is tumultuous and predictable, and it dreams in its constrained state. 

The Universe conceptualized life, but it is the Land that sustains it—that is which allows it—and it is welcome to love and hate the life that it contains. But there is more than the life that the Universe brought forth. There is a network of life—singular-celled organisms to multi-celled, some which are plants and animals, but more that are fungi and bacteria. There are the mysteries unable to be categorized.

This is what the Land dreams of.

For there is that beyond the Land—beyond Arda—and that is the Nothingness—the Void. This is the threat of all life, and this includes the Land, for while the Land existed before life, it has always existed for it. The Land is bound to life.

But the Land cannot sleep, only dream.

It acts in its dream state, straining against its binding; its flesh is its own prison, and what a great one it has made, for nothing is stronger than one's own self. It's action have a weak thought to them, for they are not directions of a sound and present mind, but the warped annd twistedness that wild dreaming produces. There is a thin network, like a web, joining the pieces, yet ever present as with any web, the Huntress awaits in the shadows to seek her rewards with avid hunger. The web will catch and the spider will consume.


	20. Ulfang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ulfang is one of the race of Men, the Atani, and is one of the Khand. He lives in the South, in an oasis, among many tribes of Atani. He is an outlooker, a guard to the gates of the oasis, and they are all brothers--no matter what sex or gender they are.
> 
> He bears the markings of Ufda, a Maia of Hyenas, and is one of the Khandhâkkâ, one of the tribes of Khand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manwe = Mānawenūz  
> Ulmo = Ullubōz  
> Oromë = Arōmēz  
> Tulkas = Tulukhastāz  
> Aulë = Aȝūlēz  
> Namo = Namandōstōz  
> Irmo = Glūrirmōnōlōsfantūrūz  
> Melkor = Mbelekhūrūz
> 
> Varda = (A)Barādāz  
> Yavanna = Ivōnnākementarīz  
> Nienna = Fuiheskīlēz  
> Estë = Ezidhēz  
> Vairë = Gwairilēz  
> Vána = Wannāz  
> Nessa = Dinēthīz
> 
> Mairon = Mairai
> 
> Ainur = Ayanuz  
> Vala = Bala  
> Maiar = Animôim (A)
> 
> __________
> 
> Ufda = Maia of Hyenas
> 
> Khandhâkkâ = one of the tribes of Khand*  
> Variag = one of the tribes of Khand*  
> Drimmôr = one of the tribes of Harad*
> 
> *Khand, Harad, and the Eastern Men (Easterlings) are not the same places/people. Even among each place, there are many languages and peoples.

Ulfang ran, and it gave him shame to do so, yet he found he was not alone. Bo'd was by his side, panting, and he saw that there were tears streaking his face. This was not a horror they were used to; the Wildmen died, and their carcasses were used as befitting of wastelessness. Instead, the Wildmen had moved and regurgitated black, slick oil. Nearby, Ulfang saw other guard-keepers. So all of his brothers had run, too. It still gave him shame, as he was sure all others were shamed, but it was a collective, shared sort, and that gave him certain peace.

It was difficult to remember how he had fled, for it was a rush—the spirit that which possessed the dead had lost its ability, and though the dead Wildmen had continued their movements, they had slowed and their bodies had burst and decayed before their eyes. There would be nothing to scavange, no bones to use. Ulfang leaned on his spear, breathing hard. His mind reeled with indecision and confusion. The strange spirit within the Wildman had spoken to him, had given him an order—submit.

It was one of the other brothers, not from his group, but another, who was older who suggested they go to the Elder. This brought on a different fear within Ulfang, and this too was shared among his brothers. Yet, none could come to disagreement. This was the wisest decision. They debated who would go to the tribe's leaders, as they too should know of what has happened. To Ulfang's dismay, his brothers refused his offer. They sent a young brother, one Ulfang did not know. He wore a beetle's markings.

 

He stood, nervous, among his brothers as the older one—Sa'ng—spoke with the Elder. He described all that he had witnessed and the Elder sat before them, expressionless and regal. None truly feared that the Elder would harm them; if she had desire to destroy any one of them, they trusted her power. Their fear came from respect. It was spoken amongst the Oasis that she was of the Land's children. She did not deny this, yet nor did she speak with the Men before her unless it was her interest. The safety of the Oasis was her concern, however, above even their leaders', and so Sa'ng spoke, explaining the arrival of the Wildmen, their slaughter, and the words spoken.

“It sprung from them,” he spoke, crossing his arms over his breasts. “A black thickness. We did not touch it, for fear.” There was curtness in his words, as if there was no shame to the fear. This brought greater respect to Ulfang's opinion of him. “It spoke to us; it spoke to me. It said that we were at the end. It commanded me, us. It told me of Nguya, the Animôim, he that is of tusk and hoof; the babirusa.”

“He did not!” Ulfang interjected, and there was muttering among his brothers. Many seemed to agree with him, that the being did not belch and vomit forth about one of the pig Animôim. “He spoke of Ulfda, the hyena.” 

Except others refused him, and Lakka spoke of the gazelle, and Bo'd and Uthong agreed on hawks, yet bickered about which kind. Others refused these, speaking of great and small cats, of oliphants, and all creatures small and great that they honored in the depths of the Oasis caverns—snakes, lizards, turtles, fish, insects, and amphibians, flighted and flightless animals.

The Elder watched them, and Ulfang stopped listening to his brother's bickering. There was beauty in the way the Elder kept herself—as if marble turned to flesh, pale in her entirety, skin mottled with dark lines of mineral. She locked eyes with Ulfang then, and he felt as if he was to be consumed, caught as prey to predator. She looked away, eyeing the many brothers arguing, and stood.

All grew quiet. 

“I will speak to the one who threw the spear,” she said, and her voice was thick and cool. There was a heavy power behind her, this one who appeared like a statue. She looked to Ulfang, and again, he felt a prey's depth of terror. 

Sa'ng spoke first, “It was him, yes; the Khandhâkkâ with the hyena markings.”

Ulfang stepped forward and none moved away to give privacy.

The Elder looked him over, and he felt himself being appraised by her white eyes. She brushed her hair away, and it struck him as impossible to see, as if rock was fluid. She smiled and took his hand, drawing him between the curtains of her cavern den. 

 

“What did you wish to speak about, Elder?” he asked, bowed. 

The Elder moved about the space, lighting incense, and soon, the smells made Ulfang sleepy and peaceful. She produced a tea for him, and he took it, his thoughts escaping him, knowing nothing of fear or concern. He drank it. She sat then, and spoke, her voice song-like, and dimly he was aware that they did not speak in common Black Speech, nor any of the multitudinous languages of the Oasis. She sung-spoke in a language that had no words, and drew from the spirit, not the body, and he could feel a new part of himself awaken. 

“Child of the Creator, some call you, and to others you are Secondborn, yet to us, to my kind, you are far more than as your birth dictates you, for you hold to no Song,” she smiled at him, and his vision swirled. “It is tempting to consume you. Yet, for my survival I cannnot. For the survival of my kind and of those greater, I cannot.”

He sighed and found he could not move for the smoke and tea. He could not fear nor think, only accept the Elder's words. It was warm, and comforting, in the cave-room.

“The others have been alerted, but you, little one, are ready. I have pondered who to bring forth first, for the Animôim have been away for too long; the planet will perish if we do not awake its Master. Your kind is too short-lived, and the Eldar are corrupted.” She smiled at him, showing her teeth. Every part of her was the same whiteness, marked only by the mineral deposits. “Yet this place, this hold survives. It is through my power and my consent that I allow you to survive.”

“It does not come without a cost.” She eyed him with a great hunger. “I thank you for the deaths you bring at its gates. Their blood sustains me, and therefore yourselves.” 

Ulfang sat, still, waiting. When she did not speak, he said with words slurred, “What would you have me do?”

“There is no choice in the matter. Allow her to consume you; allow yourself Ufda. You are sworn to her already; you wear her markings. Do you not love her?” 

Dreamily, he responded,“I do; I very much do.” He felt his words lame and weak of emotion, but in truth, he was young and feared the world, feared how to survive. So he had turned to his Animôim, his kin. They were all children, all siblings in the world, as the books taught them, left to them by the Elder—her gift from the Children of the Land, she had said at the time. Long generations have passed since, and in the depths, they had carved and built among the natural cave system. It was a temple, the last of its kind as far as they could know, for the Animôim. Many walked among the paths to choose their symbol, but few were truly drawn to them. Ulfang had been one; everything about Ufda, of the hyena, spoke to him. In his puberty, he grew more amorous of her. He had spent more and more time in the caverns, swearing to her, giving to her.

If he was not with his brothers, watching for the Wildmen, then he spent his time seeking his Animôim, seeking all the ways to serve Ufda. He had sworn to her when he began to bleed, and the temple priests gave him the medicine to alter his body. His clitoris grew, just as Ufda's was. It gave him more hair, and a deeper voice. He learned her calls, drinking of the land's water, poisoned as it was with hallucinogenics. From within his waking dreams, he heard fractions of her voice. He had vomited the poison more than once, for it was bitter and sulfuric. He sat now among the tattooists and cutters, allowing them to cut away his skin to form permanent markings. But, he still did not hear his Animôim directly. She did not speak to him. She spoke, fragments and histories passed along ancestral memories.

“You shall awaken her, child,” the marble Elder said. She gleamed with her whiteness, predatory and ancient as only rock can be. “You cannot choose this. She must survive; they all must. You are a small sacrifice to pay for her greatness.” 

Ulfang saw no parley in her speech. She did not attempt to persuade him. It was a command. If his greatest love, his Ufda, the hyena, was to live, he must die. He must give himself over. He breathed deeply, head swimming with the burning herbal mixtures. He would not have his own life; it was forfeit. He would not find old age, nor family, nor any dream of his own design. He had wondered to see the return of the Land, or to learn to properly carve fetishes. He had his own needs, own futures. But this was not allowed. He mourned briefly the lose of never having fucked.

“I give myself, for I am nothing without my Ufda,” he said. His insides squirmed with the cruel relish in the Elder's eyes, yet his heart burned with love of his Animôim.


End file.
